Too Long In Winter
by poetzproblem
Summary: They thought that they had found Elysium, but around them the bitter winter had descended. The Fates have woven another thread into the fabric, and it will either bind them or rend them asunder. Continuation of 'An Elysian Piece.' EC
1. Endless Longings

**Summary: **They thought that they had found Elysium, but around them the bitter winter had descended. The Fates have woven another thread into the fabric, and it will either bind them or rend them asunder. Sequel to _An Elysian Piece. _

**Setting: **Andrew Lloyd Webber Version (movie) with a dash of Kay, and all due credit to Leroux. Takes place approximately six months after _An Elysian Piece_.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters, I just borrow them to play with…entirely without profit.

**Author's Note: **Oh no, a sequel? Yes, indeed. May the gods forgive me for this (very) humble attempt at completing the mystery never fully explained.

* * *

_**Too Long In Winter**_

**Endless Longings**

_August 1875  
__Venice, Italy  
__Opening Performance of Verdi's **Aida **_

The light gradually spread across the stage of the _Teatro la Fenice_, casting a soft glow around the form of an angel. Her dark, chestnut curls spilled wildly around her shoulders, and a serene look of joy spread over her face as her mesmerizing voice wove a spell over the rapt audience. The golden melody floated upward and surrounded the shadowed figure lurking in the palchi above. For a moment, his eyes fell closed in bliss at the musical purity that smoothly assaulted his ears, but unable to be long deprived of the vision of beauty before him, his gaze focused again on the stage as she sang, completely lost in the passion of her aria.

Christine Daaé was exactly where she belonged.

Her fame had been growing in leaps and bounds since she had arrived in Venice more than three years before. All over the city, posters triumphantly heralded the exquisite La Daaé as _Aida_. The tragedy of her past seemed so very far behind her now as she stood proudly ruling over her domain. She had become the diva that she was always meant to be, and he briefly regretted that his presence in her life could never be free of the painful memories that they shared.

He nervously rolled the playbill in his hands as he practiced, not for the first time, what he would say to her tonight. Without a doubt, her life would be forever altered by what he would ask of her, and he must be certain to choose the correct words to ensure a favorable response.

_She must not say no_, he thought with determination.

_I cannot allow her to refuse me._

xXx

Christine took a final bow amidst the swirls of flowers raining down upon the stage. As had become her tradition, she chose the single bud of a deep red rose that had fallen at her feet and momentarily held it over her heart, smiling her brightest smile for the appreciative audience, before tossing the flower over the orchestra pit and into the waiting hand of her maestro, Signor Cassetti, who caught it graciously and bowed to her. With an elegant slide backwards, entirely credited to the strict training of Madame Giry, she disappeared behind the descending curtain.

Congratulations were echoed from the chorus to the ballet, and Christine basked in the pleasure of a nearly flawless performance. All around her, performers, musicians and stage hands were beginning the celebration of a successful opening night gala. Signor Dellano appeared from the bustle, clasping her hands between his and kissing both her cheeks in affection. "Bravissima, mia cara. You were magnifica."

She smiled gratefully at her manager, modestly thanking him for his praise. Leonardo Dellano was a distinguished gentleman in his late fifties with a head full of curly black and silver hair, a thick moustache and beard to match, and warm blue eyes. Best of all, he was as well versed in music and the arts as he was in business...unlike the managers that she had known in Paris. The entire opera company adored him, and Christine was no exception.

Leonardo had taken a rather large chance when he had offered her a contract at _La Fenice_, being that she had been completely unknown to the Italian theater; a blessing in light of her tattered reputation in Paris. She would be forever grateful to him for the opportunity, and had repaid him tenfold by filling the seats at every performance.

He had also become her self-appointed body guard for the potentially harrowing journey backstage, and he gallantly offered his arm to escort her to her dressing room. Her admirers could be quite insistent, and many of them did not take well to being rejected without a second glance. She had learned long ago to avoid eye contact as much as possible, for that seemed to give the impression of the cold and aloof diva...an image which suited her perfectly well these days.

Even after more than three years in Venice, she had yet to become comfortable amidst the shouts of _Signorina Daaé _and _Bella Diva, _and was always relieved to reach the quiet of her elegantly appointed dressing room without incident. Tonight especially, she was glad to cross the threshold into what had become her private sanctuary at _La Fenice_.

Leonardo bowed at the entrance, saying "A pleasure, as always, _bellissima donna_. Now I will go and beat the dogs away from your door, no?"

Christine offered a crooked smile. "Grazie."

He backed out of the room, allowing the heavy oak door to close behind him with a firm click. She pressed both hands against the cool wood and bowed her head for a moment as the post performance high drained away to leave her physically and emotionally exhausted. She inhaled deeply of the quiet, and straightening, she turned and crossed to her dressing table where she collapsed into the chair with a sigh of relief. She would not trade her career upon the stage for anything, but there were nights when she longed for the relative obscurity of the chorus.

As she rubbed at her temples, her eyes drifted without volition to the dresser top in front of her, only to find it empty of that which she longed most to see…the single red rose tied with black ribbon.

_He isn't here_, she thought sadly.

Of course, he had warned her that he would be unlikely to return from his business in Milan in time for the opening of _Aida_, but that had not stopped her from hoping that he would somehow find a way to be at her side. After all, he could do anything that he set his mind to, as he had proved to her repeatedly, not to mention arrogantly and smugly at times.

Erik Villon…master architect, brilliant musician and composer, gifted artist, philosopher, magician, teacher, (retired) opera ghost and forever her angel.

And her lover of more than six months.

Christine smiled to herself at the memory of that magical Carnival night in Piazza San Marco when her black clad Phantom had reappeared in all his seductive glory. The three years of their separation had changed them both indelibly, but time could never alter the soul deep connection that they had to one another. In the months since that fateful encounter, they had grown even closer, talking openly, for the most part, of their past, present, and future. She had learned, however, to tread carefully over certain subjects, as Erik's temper was still a touch unpredictable.

The first time he had come back stage at _La Fenice_, for example, he had been only seconds away from doing physical harm to one of her overzealous would-be suitors. She'd had to forcibly drag him into the safety of her dressing room and, even then, it had taken some creative distraction on her part to soothe his violent jealousy.

Erik would never be an easy man to love, but love him she did.

She had long ago discovered that there was simply no other way for her. Her foolish, youthful attempts to purge him from her heart had failed miserably, and she had realized, nearly too late, that it was far easier to battle _his demons _than her own.

Sighing again, she turned her attention to the task of removing her stage make-up as she dreamily imagined the many ways in which she might welcome Erik back to Venice. He had come to love the city as much as she, and his intent was to eventually conclude all of his business affairs in Milan and permanently relocate. Yet Christine knew it would not be a simple task. Even though his career was the more flexible in terms of location, he had certain obligations that he could not immediately abandon. The man who had hired Erik upon his arrival in Italy, Signor Rivaldi, had only recently succumbed to a long battle with illness, and Erik had a duty to properly settle his business. Christine respected him for this, and would never wish him to act against his fledgling conscience, but she could not help wanting him permanently at her side.

She missed him terribly when he was away from her.

Unaccustomed to such happiness as she had experienced in the past half a year, she could not help worrying that some unnamed dark force was laying in wait to snatch it from her grasp. Her short past had been filled with nearly as much tragedy as Erik's, and the years that their lives had intertwined in Paris had overflowed with the brightest of light and the blackest of shadow for both of them. They had been lucky enough to be given a precious second chance, and thus far, the joy of their rediscovery had been worth far more than the many difficulties they had yet to fully conquer. She could only hope it would remain so in light of the secrets that she knew he still kept.

"Signorina Daaé?"

Christine nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected voice of Signor Dellano accompanied by his insistent knock. Her manager very rarely interrupted her after a performance until well after the backstage had been cleared.

_Certainly it cannot be that late in the evening._

She glanced at the clock on the mantle as she tightly cinched her dressing gown. Barely twenty minutes had passed since the curtain had fallen. Frowning in concern, she placed a trembling hand upon the door handle, a sudden feeling of foreboding inexplicably building in the pit of her stomach. She opened the door a scant inch to peer through, and encountered the worried blue eyes of Leonardo.

"You need to see me, Leo?" she asked in barely even tones.

He visibly shifted his weight and cleared his throat nervously, apologetically saying, "Scusi, signorina. A gentleman wishes to congratulate you on your performance tonight."

She arched a brow in surprise. Her first thought was that it must be Erik, for Leonardo knew that she never allowed any other gentlemen into her dressing room save himself, but if that were so, Leonardo would not look so put upon. The two men had gradually developed a grudging respect for one another…Leonardo due in no small part to the fact that Erik had been the one to perfect Christine's talent, and Erik in appreciation that her manager had recognized this fact.

Christine grimaced, coldly stating in her haughtiest tones for the benefit of whoever stood behind Leonardo, "You know that I do not accept gentlemen callers, signor."

"Now, Christine," came the not unfamiliar voice, "is that any way to greet an old friend?"

She stumbled back from the door in surprise, the action allowing it to freely swing open, as her hand flew reflexively to her throat. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath her touch and she inhaled sharply as her eyes focused on the form revealed in the open doorway.

"Raoul?"

* * *

**Italian**:  
_Palchi_ Private box  
_Bravissima, mia cara_ Very well done, my dear  
_Bella diva _Beautiful star  
_Bellissima donna _Most beautiful woman  
_Scusi_ Excuse me  
_Grazie_ Thank you

* * *

**A/N:** Hmm...not who you thought it would be? 

Translations are rough...and anyone fluent in Italian please feel free to correct any misusage.  
As always...I welcome feedback.


	2. Echo

**Echo**

_Four Months Earlier  
__Milan_

The carriage came to a stuttering stop on the dusty cobblestone drive in front of the Villa della Luce, a sprawling residence nicely situated on the shady lane of Via Bianca. Christine Daaé stiffly emerged from the cab, firmly gripping the doorframe and extending one elegant foot toward the step. Her toe had barely found purchase before she was bodily seized about her waist and lifted effortlessly to the ground. A surprised squeak escaped her as her hands flew up to clutch at strong, masculine shoulders. She smiled crookedly at her captor; his masked face aglow with pleasure at the considerably less than exquisite site of her.

She, in turn, greedily drank in every nuance of him as the coachman bounded to the ground and skirted around them to unload her bags. Erik grabbed her left hand and gripped it possessively with both of his, dragging it to his mouth to press a near desperate kiss to her knuckles. His eyes sparkled with barely leashed passion, and she felt a reciprocating ardor bloom deep in her belly. Their three week separation had somehow seemed longer than the three years that they had been apart prior, and both were eager to escape into the villa and make amends for the enforced absence.

A dark skinned man climbed down from the top of the carriage, wordlessly aiding the coachman to carry the luggage inside. Erik nodded to him briefly before he returned his full attention to Christine, and his mouth curved into a soft, almost boyish smile.

"How was your journey, mon ange?"

"Horrible," she pouted. "I detest traveling by rail."

He delicately caressed her cheek, his eyes twinkling with merriment. "Would you have preferred crossing the long distance by carriage?"

Christine sighed, "I suppose it was more expedient this way, and Darius proved excellent company."

Erik's joyful expression dimmed slightly at the mention of his servant. "Was his behavior above reproach?" he demanded. "If it was anything less, I shall have words with him."

She chose not to take offense at his predictable show of jealously, even though it was absolutely without merit. "You would not have sent Darius to be my escort," she gently reminded him, "if you had not trusted him completely."

"It is the Daroga who trusts him completely," he growled. "I would rather have escorted you myself, but it simply was not possible for me to leave Milan."

Her gaze softened with compassion as she stroked her fingers across his tense jaw, asking, "How is Signor Rivaldi?"

xXx

Erik sighed and shook his sadly head at the mention of his once employer, now partner. Alonzo Rivaldi had given him a chance to make a life for himself in Milan, and now the older man's own life was slowly slipping away. His illness had been the very event that had sent Erik to Venice two months before, and right into the arms of the woman before him. He had seen Christine perform at _Teatro la Fenice_, and soon discovered her to be free of her ties to Paris and the Vicomte de Chagny. His week long business trip had turned into more than a month whilst they had started along the slow, and sometimes painful, path toward forgiveness.

So lost in his angel's miraculous love, he had been unable to tear himself away from her…until the letter had arrived. Rivaldi's daughter, Sophia, had sent word that her father's condition was deteriorating, and begged Erik to return to Milan. Christine had urged him to go, though she had been unable to leave Venice until _La Fenice _went dark at the conclusion of its spring season.

Now she was finally here, and Erik was relieved to have her at his side once again. Her very presence was a balm to his soul. Sighing, he took Christine's arm and began to lead her along the walkway to his home. "I am afraid that Alonzo is not doing at all well."

"I am so sorry, Erik," she said quietly as she rested her head against his shoulder. "I know how much his friendship must mean to you."

"He is…a unique character. I want to introduce you to him." A thoughtful smile graced his mouth as he admitted, "He is most eager to meet the woman responsible for so thoroughly distracting me from my work."

"As if you are not a distraction to me," she gently chided. "I had not been late to so many rehearsals since my days in Paris when you would keep me too long at my lessons."

Erik chuckled, "Antoinette understood."

"But Signor Dellano does not." She arched a delicate brow, and informed him pointedly, "He prefers to have his Prima Donna arrive on time."

He grinned evilly, "I would dearly love to see how he might handle a truly difficult diva."

"I can be difficult should I choose," she insisted in an adorably childish fashion.

A husky chuckle escaped him, "If you say so, my dear."

xXx

Upon entering the villa, Christine was stunned by the elegance of her surroundings. She had not known what to expect of Erik's home, likely due to having been exposed to the overwhelming discordance of the Phantom's subterranean lair, but she was immediately surrounded by the comforting feeling of _Erik_. The décor was unarguably masculine and lacking a woman's delicate touch, for which she felt shameless relief, and there were traces of his past scattered about in subtle strokes. A Persian carpet in the entryway, a finely crafted porcelain _Carnevale_ mask upon the table, but it was the painting of the Opera Populáire in all of its glory that took her breath.

His impromptu tour was designed purely to familiarize her with the house, and not to display its unique charm. She would have liked to linger in each room and absorb the atmosphere, but Erik ushered her along to his own purpose. They stepped into the library, and encountered the man that Christine instantly recognized as the Persian. She had caught a glimpse of him once or twice in Paris, but she had paid him little attention, as her head had been constantly in the clouds in those days…filled with thoughts of her angel and their lessons. There simply had been no room for anything associated with the Opera Ghost in the time before her fateful premiere in _Hannibal_.

Now she was presented with the man in the flesh. He seemed to be a few years older than Erik, with riotous inky black hair sprinkled with only a few silver strands, a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee framing a dusky, weathered face, and dark, nearly black, assessing eyes focused on her in unabashed interest. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being judged.

Beside her, Erik grumbled under his breath, "_Daroga,_" and Christine struggled to suppress a smile. She knew that her lover was silently cursing the unavoidable interruption to their privacy.

The Persian showed no qualm in expressing his own good humor, and bowed grandly. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I presume."

"You know bloody well who she is, Nadir," Erik growled. "You lurked about the Parisian opera house nearly as much as I did."

Nadir Kahn continued to smile at Christine, though it was Erik he addressed. "Apparently she knows who I am, as well," he said pointedly, "though we have yet to be properly introduced."

Christine stifled a giggle at Erik's annoyed glare and impatient huff, "Christine, this _charming gentleman _is the Daroga, Nadir Kahn. The eternal thorn in my side."

She grinned at Nadir and politely extended her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Kahn."

"The pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle," he said with a smile, taking her proffered hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her fingers. "You have no idea how difficult it has been in these last few weeks to endure Erik's surly mood."

"_Erik_," the man himself growled, "is standing right here. Now if you will excuse us, Daroga, I would like to show Christine the rest of the villa."

"Of course," Nadir nodded. "I have some business of my own to attend, but I simply could not miss the little Daaé's arrival." Turning his attention solely to Christine, he gently squeezed her hand. "I hope we will sit and have a long conversation very soon, mademoiselle."

"As do I," she agreed. She was eager to learn more about the mysterious man who, quite possibly, knew Erik better than anyone. She doubted that the Persian would reveal anything more than Erik had about their shared past, but he had been the one to keep Erik from succumbing to his despair after she had left him in Paris. For that, Christine would be forever grateful to the man before her.

He released her hand and bowed again with a smile. "Arrivederci."

Once he had left them to their privacy, Christine turned to Erik with a raised eyebrow. "The little Daaé?"

Erik chuckled, "Pay no mind to Nadir, mon ange. You are by no means _little_ any longer." Christine gasped as Erik pulled her into his arms with a wicked grin. "In fact, you are very much a grown woman." His mouth descended upon hers, coaxing her lips to open under his assault. She moaned in pleasure and coiled her arms around his neck as her body molded to his, having been too long deprived of its mate. The kiss softened, and he whispered, "I have missed you so very much."

"And I have missed you," she murmured as she lovingly stroked her thumb along his lower lip. Her mouth curved mischievously and she impishly inquired, "Perhaps we might continue the tour upstairs?"

Erik's smile turned wolfish. "If my diva commands me…"

"I do," she bid him (with such sweet words that she hoped soon to utter before God and witnesses, if the fool of a man would only ask her _the question_.)

He firmly took her hand in his and eagerly led her from the room toward the grand curved staircase. The couple would not be seen on the first floor again for several hours.

xXx

As the orange glow of the afternoon transformed into early evening, Erik appeared in the library with a glitter in his eyes that had been lacking since his return from Venice. Nadir looked up from his book and raised one bushy eyebrow. "You are looking rather pleased with yourself this evening."

Erik smiled in response, completely unaffected by the Daroga's attempts to rile him. "You are only jealous, old man," he gaily responded as he settled himself into the chair opposite his friend.

Nadir huffed, "And where _is_ the little Daaé?"

"Her name is _Christine_," Erik grounded out with narrowed eyes, "and she is resting. The journey from Venice left her exhausted."

Nadir stroked his goatee and chuckled, "The journey, hmm?"

"Yes," Erik snapped with finality, his burning eyes daring his friend to comment further on the delicate activities that had transpired on the upper floor of the villa.

Setting the book aside, the Persian intertwined his fingers and leaned back in his chair with elbows resting on the wooden arms. "She has grown into a quite a lovely young woman. My memory did not do her justice."

Relaxing, Erik smiled and insisted, "Da Vinci himself could not do her beauty justice. She is an angel."

Nadir brought his pursed fingers to his lips and looked thoughtfully at Erik. "Perhaps…but I have not forgotten the hell she wrought in Paris."

Drawing a very deep breath, Erik forced himself to remain calm and silently recited all the reasons why physically throwing the Persian across the room would be wrong. "Tread carefully, Daroga," he warned lowly.

Christine Daaé had been something of a point of contention between the two men since the Persian had discovered her reappearance in Erik's life. Nadir bore no ill will against Christine, but neither did he make secret his concern that a renewed acquaintance could prove devastating to all involved. He had been the one, after all, to pick up the pieces the last time Erik had been rejected by his chosen love, and he had no desire to go through such an ordeal again.

Indeed, Nadir had been astonished to learn that she had been so very close for so long, a diva upon the stage of _La Fenice_, and never married to her pretty Vicomte. Just one of these conditions seemed dangerous enough, but all three of them together could be just the twist of Fate to send Erik spiraling back into his old obsessions.

"You have no need to worry, my friend. I can see the love shining in her eyes," Nadir confessed, "but I would be remiss in my duties should I simply ignore her power to…_arouse_…your less noble characteristics."

"I wish you would, Daroga," Erik sighed. "I grow weary of your counsel."

Nadir shrugged, "Yet you bear it well enough."

"My only other option would be killing you, and Christine would not approve."

The threat was only a touch more menacing than a simple jest, and the Persian acknowledged the warning with a nod. With a slight smile peeking out from behind his moustache, he said, "You would do well to let her make an honest man of you."

Erik felt his heart jump at the thought of Christine as his wife….belonging only to him. His desire to so completely possess her was hardly the mark of an _honest_ man.

"An impossible task," he admitted grudgingly, "but she might yet make a husband of me."

_Dare I ask her?_

_Will she dare say 'yes?'

* * *

_

**A/N: **Yes, I am a terrible tease…leaving that cliffhanger in Chapter One to torment you for awhile longer, but our favorite couple need a little more romance before the trouble begins, don't you think?

Thank you to all who have reviewed...I enjoy hearing from you.


	3. In This Whisper

**In This Whisper**

"Yes," Christine whispered.

Erik blinked at the swift certainty of her response. "Are you certain, mon ange?"

She laughed lightly at his charming puzzlement and ghosted a brief kiss across his lips. "Of course…I would be happy to accompany you on your visit to Signor Rivaldi this afternoon."

"I thought that perhaps you might wish to remain in the villa today," he reasoned. "You have only just arrived, and Alonzo's family can be…_overwhelming_…under even the best of circumstances."

"Erik," she chided. "I _want _to meet him. All of them," she cocked her head in suspicion, "or have you changed your mind about _them_ meeting _me_?"

"Of course not, my dear. Nothing will please me more than to introduce you to…my…friends," he completed with no little discomfort. Christine grinned, thinking him adorably inept at his personal relationships and delighting in the knowledge that she might finally prove to be better at something that he, though, admittedly, not by very much.

"You told me that Signer Rivaldi has seven daughters," she said as they walked arm in arm to the dining room. Erik had gallantly appeared at the door of her boudoir to escort her down for breakfast, and she found herself basking in delight at such an ordinary ritual. "Are they all nearby?"

"Sophia, the middle daughter, and Isabella, the youngest, live in Milan. Alonzo and Isabella are staying with Sophia's family now that he is too ill to be alone," Erik said with an edge of sadness to his voice. "The eldest three, Marcella, Elisabetta and Gabriella, all reside within an hour of Milan with their families, and have been to visit Alonzo many times over these last weeks. Allesandra lives in Spain with her husband, and is en route from Barcelona as we speak. She is expected to arrive within the next few days. Nicoletta, the youngest, save Isabella, lives in Napoli, but she is heavy with child…her first, and Alonzo has insisted that she not travel in her condition."

"It must be very difficult for her to be so far from her father now," Christine speculated sorrowfully as her thoughts naturally turned to her own beloved father.

"Yes," Erik agreed, "but Alonzo enjoyed a lengthy visit with her only months ago while he was still able."

"He does not have very much time remaining, does he?"

"No," Erik said quietly before adding, "He was the first in Milan to accept me without suspicion or fear. In all of these years, he has never once asked about my mask."

"Then I already know that I will adore him," she whispered before pressing a kiss to Erik's cheek.

They arrived in the dining room together to discover Nadir already present for a breakfast of fresh fruits, cheeses and toasted bread. The Persian stood courteously as Erik held a chair for Christine, and once they had settled, he returned his attention to the newspaper.

Erik directed Darius to prepare tea for Christine, but she protested, "That isn't necessary, Erik. The coffee will suffice."

Nadir chuckled without looking up from the paper, and Erik glared at his friend even as he appeased Christine. "I do not think your delicate tastes would approve of the coffee, mon ange."

Christine could not resist rising to the challenge and insisted, "I will have the coffee."

Nadir raised his sparkling black eyes and smiled. "It is very strong, mademoiselle. A Persian brew that Erik and I have grown accustomed to."

"I should like to try it," she insisted. With an arched brow, he reached for the coffee pot and poured the inky liquid into her cup. Christine lifted it delicately to her lips, inhaling the thick, heady aroma, and hesitated. She was aware of two sets of eyes watching her curiously, and she took a cautious sip. The overwhelming flavor exploded over her tongue and burned down her throat with such rich vigor that she could not bite back the cough that escaped her. Erik and Nadir both tried valiantly, and failed miserably, to not laugh at the comical expression of distaste she knew must be upon her face.

Gathering his composure, Erik asked, "Will you take your tea now, my dear?"

She blushed furiously, and in an attempt to regain her dignity, she carefully set the cup aside and straightened haughtily in her chair. "I believe I shall."

Nadir reined in his own laughter, and said agreeably, "There is no shame in the attempt. The coffee is an acquired taste." He opened the paper before him again, and almost as an afterthought, added, "As are many things, I suppose."

Christine sensed Erik's mood darken at the offhanded comment, and he growled, "Enough, Daroga." She was left completely perplexed at the sudden tension between the men.

The rest of breakfast passed in an uncomfortable quiet, at least until the Persian excused himself and Erik seemed to relax, beginning to talk of Milan and all he wished to show her during her stay. Yet she could not quiet her curiosity, and when they had finished their meal and Erik had reluctantly left her alone for a time in the parlor, she went in search of Nadir. She found him the library, reading a volume that she recognized as Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.

Upon her entry, he began to rise and she motioned for him to stay seated, choosing to take the chair across from him; unaware that she echoed Erik's position from the previous night. "I thought that we might have our conversation now, as Erik has left me to fend for myself whilst he sees to his business."

Nadir set the book aside, much as he had the night before, and settled back into his chair. "Where would you like to begin?"

Smiling, she said, "At the beginning, of course, but I know that is very unlikely to happen."

"Why do you say that?" The knowing look in his dark eyes caused the seemingly innocent question to lose much of its effect.

Christine met his gaze head on, answering honestly, "Erik will not tell me of Persia, and I suspect that you have been instructed not to speak of it either."

Nadir chuckled, "You suspect correctly, mademoiselle, but I needed no warning from him. That which you must know of our time there will only be revealed by Erik when he is ready for you to know. To circumvent this would prove unwise."

She sighed, "I know…and I am making every attempt to respect his privacy, no matter how frustrating."

"Curiosity is a dangerous vice," he said solemnly, "as I think you have learned."

Christine straightened at his censure, and her feeling that this man was passing judgment on her returned tenfold. She began to realize that the tension between Erik and the Persian over breakfast had been because of _her_. What had Nadir said about acquired tastes?

_My God, did he mean Erik? Do I seem so shallow?_

Hugging her arms around herself in despondency, she whispered, "You do not approve of me."

"I do not approve of your previous behavior in regards to Erik and your young Vicomte," he confessed without shame. "Nor do I approve of Erik's past actions," he was quick to add. "Yet I count myself as his friend. I would like to count myself as yours, but I suppose that I require some time to…trust you." He smiled reassuringly, tactfully amending, "Or perhaps, I should say, trust Erik _with_ you."

Christine wiped impatiently at her tears, finding no use for them anymore. "We have both changed since Paris, Monsieur Kahn. I am not the same inconstant creature I was then, and I know precisely who Erik is now. I will not run from him again."

"Can you be certain of that?"

"Yes," she insisted. "I love him. He was not the only one to suffer when I turned away from him, and I have spent the past three years living with the regret of my actions."

Nadir eyed her carefully, then nodded as though coming to some internal decision. With a tilt of his head, he asked, "Has he shown you his music room?"

Christine's brow creased in confusion at the abrupt change of subject. "Excuse me?"

The Persian clicked his tongue, and patiently repeated, "The music room, mademoiselle. Have you seen it?"

"No," she murmured, "I have not. I don't understand…"

"You will," said Nadir as he retrieved his book in a silent signal that the conversation was at an end. Christine sat staring dumbly at him for several minutes, during which he did nothing but continue in the taciturn perusal of his book, before she finally stood and left the room without comment.

As she wandered back in the direction of the parlor, she began to retrace the steps of Erik's hurried tour of the previous day. Had she entered every room? She knew that she had on the lower floor, but the upper floor? Yes, of course, the music room must be up there.

She climbed the staircase and began to haphazardly open doors, some of which she had already explored, others which she had not. She avoided only the room that she had been given, the master bedroom, and the door that she remembered to be Erik's office. Upon reaching the end of the hall, she came to the stunning realization that there _was_ no music room. No piano. No organ. Not even a violin anywhere to be seen.

With a sudden sting of emotion, Erik's strange reaction to her tiny square piano in Venice came rushing vividly back to her. He had acted as though the instrument was foreign to him, and he had touched the keys, at first, with such trembling reverence as to make her believe that the experience was somehow sacred to him. His voice had been laden with rust, though still so beautiful to her.

'_You alone can make my song take flight.'_

His words resounded in her ears, burned through her blood and coiled around her heart. She reached out to lay a trembling hand on the wall in an attempt to steady herself against the force of her revelation.

_Can it be possible that he had denied himself music for so many years?_

While she had dealt with her grief and regret by clinging to the lessons that he had given to her and rededicating her life to music, had her angel removed all traces of it from his life? _No_…he had still attended the opera in Venice. He had not rejected their shared love _entirely_.

Needing to speak with him, she all but ran down the hall and skidded to a stop before his closed office door. She knocked only briefly before wrenching the knob and bursting in, quivering with disbelief and anger. Erik looked up from his draft table in surprise, and when he noticed the state that she was in, he rushed to her side with an expression of concern.

"My God, Christine. What has happened?" His eyes flashed suddenly, and he ground out, "Did that damned Persian say something to upset you?"

She huffed raggedly, "Where is your piano, Erik?"

He visibly started, his brow creasing in bewilderment. "My…piano?"

"You have no instrument in this house," she stated bleakly, "not even a scrap of sheet music."

He sighed and dragged a weary hand over his face. "No. I do not."

"Why?" she demanded on a choked sob.

Erik gently traced a finger over her flushed cheek. "I could not bear to play…or sing…or write…without you," he said simply.

Christine burst into tears at his confession, throwing herself into his arms and clinging to him desperately. "Forgive me, my angel," she wept, "Oh, God, please forgive me."

Stroking her back in a clumsy attempt at comfort, he chuckled uncomfortably, "Christine, there really is no need for such dramatics. Have I not already forgiven you?"

He did not understand. How could he? Until that moment, Christine had failed to understand the extent of the wound that she had inflicted upon him. Now she could finally comprehend what the Persian had been telling her. _She_ had been the music in Erik's life, and at her loss, he had been left empty of all his brilliance…existing as a mere shade of his former self until she had returned to him. To lose her again would destroy him beyond repair. It was little wonder that Nadir remained wary of her presence in Erik's life.

Lifting her head from his shoulder, Christine took his face between her hands and vowed, "I will never give you cause to forsake music again, my love." She kissed him then, tearing the mask from his face and molding her body to his, as if in doing so, she could somehow fill his soul with all of the music that she had stolen from him. "Never again," she whispered against his mouth.

Erik responded eagerly to her seduction, pushing the door behind her closed and turning the lock.

xXx

Hours later, having refreshed her appearance, Christine accompanied Erik to the residence of Sophia and Franco Miele, Signor Rivaldi's daughter and son-in-law. She remained in the background, studiously observing every detail as Sophia embraced Erik. The woman was very attractive, with glossy black hair that was messily pinned up, allowing a few dark curls to escape around her lovely face. Her eyes were the deepest blue that Christine had ever seen, and beautiful even with the haunting sadness that she recognized all too well. Generous curves were evident beneath her simple dress, and had she not been happily married, Christine might have felt the prickle of jealousy at the familiarity that the other woman claimed with Erik.

Sophia's husband, Franco, was a tall, lean man with dark eyes half hidden behind tiny round glasses. His brown hair was closely cropped and slicked with grease in an attempt to tame his curls. He nodded to Erik kindly before his gaze settled upon Christine and a wide grin spread across his face, showing off perfect white teeth.

"_The light of love, the purity of grace, the mind, the Music breathing from her face,__¹_" he said as he turned to Erik.

Erik smiled softly at Christine and reached out to take her hand, which she placed gladly into his. "_The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, and, oh, the eye was in itself a Soul!__¹_" He placed a kiss to her hand, and turned to Franco with a smug air. "Byron," he said. "Far too easy, my friend."

Christine grinned at the exchange, having been warned by Erik that Sophia's husband was a scholar of literature, and that he would often quote obscure passages in the hopes of finding one that Erik did not know. He had yet to succeed.

Franco huffed good-naturedly at his defeat, and Sophia lightly slapped her husband's arm, the shadows of grief in her eyes lifting for a moment before she turned her attention back to her guests. "Erik," she scolded. "You must introduce us properly to your signora molto bella."

"Of course," he complied. "Signor and Signora Franco and Sophia Miele, please allow me to present Signorina Christine Daaé." He turned to Christine with pride and added, "The Prima Donna of _Teatro la Fenice_."

Sophia smiled warmly and took Christine's hands between her own. "Benvenuto, signorina," she said, placing a kiss to each of her cheeks before leaning back to look the younger woman over with a critical eye. "Mio Dio, you are even skinnier than Erik! Do you Frenchies never eat? Snails and crepes…_bah_…tonight I will cook real food for you. Boun cibo Italiano! Give you some curves."

Christine felt herself blushing furiously at the woman's blunt appraisal of her. "Grazie, signora," she murmured for lack of a better response, and before she could make further comment, the relative quiet of the household was interrupted by ear splitting shouts.

"Signor Erik! Signor Erik!" Christine started as three miniature versions of Franco and Sophia came sliding into the foyer, nearly tumbling over one another as they stopped to gape at her in surprise.

"Bambini, per favore comportatevi bene," scolded Sophia. She turned to Christine with an apologetic smile. "Scusi, signorina. My children are not usually so rude." Erik snorted, and Franco hid his laugh behind a cough, both alerting Christine to unlikelihood of Sophia's avowal.

To further disprove the statement, the oldest child and only girl asked, "Who is the bella donna, Signor Erik?"

Christine was surprised to see him smile indulgently at the child. "This is Christine, Francesca. A very dear…friend." He grinned at Christine, and said, "This is Francesca," Erik made a grand show of presenting the child, a lovely little black haired girl of about eight, who grinned and curtsied primly, "and her brothers, Dante," he waived his hand toward a curly haired boy of five or six who bowed politely, "and Vincente," he ended on an adorable little boy of no more than four who shyly hid half behind his mamma's skirt.

They were all so beautiful, and Christine felt her throat suddenly tighten at the perfect family before her. She would have thought Erik uncomfortable in the presence of children, but he seemed perfectly at ease, as though he had spent many hours in their company. She felt a heretofore unknown longing blossom deep in her womb.

"Stefano, my baby is, I hope, upstairs still napping," Sophia said with a raised brow to her daughter.

"Sì , mamma," she said obediently before turning back to Erik with a hopeful look. "Will you show us the magic, Signor Erik?"

He chuckled, wordlessly kneeling before the child and waiving an empty hand before her face before dramatically closing his fingers and reaching back to brush her ear and produce a gold coin, which he presented to her.

"Grazie, Signor Erik," she said as she was quickly shoved aside by her brothers for their turn. Erik dutifully produced two more gold coins to the children's delight, and Christine's amazement. Not for the magic, for she had seen him perform far more daring tricks, but for his patience with the children.

When they began to beg for more, Sophia sharply clapped twice to bring order to her children. "Come now, leave Signor Erik in peace." Turning her attention to Erik, she shook her head tolerantly and smiled before saying, "Papa will want to meet your lady. Bring her along, Erik. Franco, set two more places for dinner. Bambini, help your papa!"

"Sì, mamma," they said in near perfect unison.

"Sì, mio amore," echoed Franco, kissing her cheek. To Christine, he winked and said, "I hope you brought your appetite. My Sophia likes to cook."

* * *

¹_Lord Byron_, _**Bride of Abydos **__(canto I, st. 6)_

**Italian** :  
_Signora molto bella _Very pretty / beautiful lady  
_Benvenuto_ Welcome  
_Boun cibo Italiano _Good Italian food (yum)  
_Bambini, per favore comportatevi bene. _Children, please behave yourselves.  
_Bella donna _Beautiful woman

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for your kind reviews. I hope you will continue to offer your most appreciated feedback. 


	4. Angel or Father

**Angel or Father**

Alonzo Rivaldi was as stubborn a man as God had ever placed upon the earth, but even he was not obstinate enough to evade Death. He had seen various doctors and been given the diagnosis of a cancerous lung disease from each, banned from his much loved tobacco, prescribed laudanum to ease his pains, which he refused to take, and given, at most, a year before the simple act of breathing would become all but impossible. He had, of course, been informed of this nearly eight months before and had hidden his condition from his family and friends until his failing health could no longer be disguised.

When Sophia brought their guests into her father's room, they found him sitting propped upon his pillows in the huge bed, and seeing him thus, she immediately admonished him, "Papa, you should be laying down. The doctor…"

"Hang the doctor," he wheezed before his traitorous body was seized by a violent fit of coughing. Sophia rushed to his side, attempting to soothe him as best she could.

Christine felt her heart tighten painfully at the scene, remembering all too clearly sitting by her own beloved father's bed side as he succumbed to his long battle with illness. As if sensing her memories, Erik squeezed her hand reassuringly and placed a feather light kiss to her temple. Her eyes fell closed against the painful scene before her and she felt more than a little awkward intruding into such a private moment.

Once Alonzo had recovered his breath, he waived Sophia away and nodded to his visitors. "Erik," he said between ragged breaths, "this is…your amore?"

"Yes." Erik pressed a supportive hand against Christine's back and guided her forward to the older man's bedside. "Christine Daaé," he said, "allow me to present Signor Alonzo Rivaldi."

"I am very pleased to finally meet you, signor. Erik has told me a great deal about you," she said with a gentle smile.

Alonzo reached out to her, and she placed her hand into his palm. He smiled up at her kindly and brought their joined hands to his dry lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles. Drawing back, he looked her over in careful consideration, much as Sophia had done earlier, and Christine once again felt a blush stain her cheeks.

"Bellissima," Alonzo said simply. Never taking his eyes from Christine, he addressed Erik, "Little wonder…my Isabella…could never catch…your eye…mio amico. When you had…one so lovely…waiting for you." Christine's blush deepened with his compliment, and Alonzo's smile widened. "Erik…tells me…you sing…like an angel. You will…for me…yes?"

Christine looked to Erik in question, uncertain if she should oblige such a request, and he answered with a smile and a nod of approval. "You must not refuse Alonzo, my dear. He will only hound you until you comply."

She returned her attention to the poor man before her and offered what she hoped was her brightest smile, asking, "What would you like to hear?"

Alonzo chuckled lightly; the action causing another fit of powerful coughs to wrack his fragile form. Christine stepped back to Erik's side as Sophia aided her father, and wiped at the tears on her cheeks, not wanting Alonzo to see her grief and pity. Sophia removed the excess pillows from her father's bed and helped him to recline fully. When he was settled, he whispered something into his daughter's ear, causing Sophia to gasp and raise a trembling hand to her mouth as she clearly struggled for composure.

Christine could feel Erik tense beside her and hear his heart speed, though he showed no outward sign of panic. Sophia drew a steadying breath and turned to the couple with tears streaming over her cheeks. "Papa," she whispered brokenly, "has requested the _Requiem_."

Christine gave up her battle with her own tears and looked to Erik for support. His own eyes were suspiciously moist, but he gave her a sad smile of encouragement. She took a few moments to compose herself, and returned to Alonzo's bedside. She did not warm her voice before she began, reasoning that she had done so earlier in the day after she had convinced Erik to dig out the violin he had stored away at the bottom of a trunk so that they might have an impromptu lesson.

Drawing a breath, Christine began to sing; her eyes focused on Alonzo and her voice growing stronger with every word.

'_Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.  
__Te decet hymnus Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Ierusalem.  
__Exaudi orationem meam; ad te omnis caro veniet.  
__Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.__¹__ '_

She was unaware of the gathering crowd behind her. The nurse had been the first to be drawn into the room, and was soon followed by Franco and the children. Sophia slipped into her husband's arms and listened as her father was serenaded by a heavenly voice.

When Christine finally allowed the final note to fade, she stood with tears streaming unabashedly from her eyes amidst a silent gathering of nearly the entire household. She felt emotionally drained, and she swayed slightly on her feet only to have Erik's strong arms encircle her from behind. Into the silence, Alonzo whispered, "Grazie, dolce angelo."

"Prego," Christine managed to respond.

She was pulled from the moment by Sophia, who pried her from Erik's arms to hug her tightly. "Grazie, grazie," she cried. "I have never heard anything so beautiful. You have made my father very happy, I know." Sophia released her with a watery smile. "Franco, take the signorina downstairs and give her something to drink. Papa must have rest now."

Franco nodded to his wife, seemingly speechless and plainly moved by the performance. Christine turned to Alonzo again, clasping his hand in hers. "Dormi bene," she whispered. He smiled and nodded, and she released his hand, moving to take Erik's arm.

Before they could follow Franco and the children out of the room, Alonzo stopped them with a hoarse, "Erik, un momento." Christine nodded to Erik in understanding and released his arm, wordlessly leaving the men to their privacy.

As Franco accompanied her to the parlor, she silently prayed for Alonzo Rivaldi, and wished with all of her heart that she might have the chance to know him better, knowing that such a better acquaintance was unlikely to be formed.

xXx

Erik stood stoically over Alonzo's bed as Sophia worriedly hovered next to him. The older man glared at his daughter, gesturing for her to go, and the two stubborn Italians stared at one another for long moments before Sophia finally shook her head in frustration and said to Erik, "Do not let him overtire himself."

"Of course not," Erik responded deferentially.

She gave a last warning look to her father. "If Erik is not downstairs in five minutes, I will be back. You hear me?" After a quick word to the nurse, she left the room.

Alonzo took Erik's hand in his and tightened his grip as much as he could. "Marry…the girl. Do not…let her…get away…again."

Erik swallowed heavily and nodded. "Do not worry, Alonzo. I rarely make the same mistake more than once." He had never told his mentor of his past in France, nor his unspeakable crimes, and he had certainly never made any mention of Christine until he had returned from Venice. Even then, he had only spoken in terms of their present connection, nothing of their history together. Yet Alonzo seemed to sense that she was the woman who had been so long in his heart.

"Good," the older man whispered. "I know…you will not…leave…your lady now…but you will see…to the business. Roberto…is a good boy." Alonzo smiled as he mentioned the young man whom he and Erik had taken on as an apprentice nearly a year ago, and Erik wondered now if he had been preparing for his own death even then. "Young," Alonzo continued, "but you…will guide him….and he will…do well."

They had discussed this before, of course, and Erik had given his word then that he would make certain that Alonzo's hard built business did not perish with him, though committing himself to such a task in Milan would be a difficult with Christine in Venice. Despite his selfish desire to focus only upon Christine, Erik again vowed, "I will see that everything is taken care of, my friend."

Alonzo nodded, saying with a smile, "Roberto…has…his eyes…on my…Isabella. Maybe…one of my girls….will yet…marry….an architect."

Erik chuckled at the man's single minded determination to finally claim a son-in-law from his beloved profession. "Perhaps. Now rest, Alonzo, or we will both have to answer to Sophia."

xXx

When Erik reappeared downstairs, it was to find Christine sitting in the parlor with cup of tea in her hands listening raptly to Franco dismantle the mythology of _Faust_. Her attention was completely stolen by her lover the moment that he entered the room, and she looked up with a smile.

Sophia stood and asked, "Papa?"

Erik said reassuringly, "He is resting comfortably now. The nurse is with him."

"Good," she nodded. "Supper is nearly ready. We are only waiting for Isabella to return from the cathedral."

No sooner had the words passed her lips, than the sound of the front door opening and closing could be heard from the foyer. A moment later, a stunning young woman entered the room, followed closely behind by a young man. Pausing, her eyes were immediately drawn to the man before her.

"Erik," she beamed, "I did not know you were coming to visit today!"

Christine noticed the way the girl's lovely face suddenly seemed to glow with pleasure, and felt an uncomfortable prickle of annoyance. Her eyes narrowed upon the girl smiling radiantly at Erik. She was a younger version of Sophia, with glossy black hair, sparkling blue eyes, and more curves than Christine could ever hope to have, even if she ate all the good Italian food in the world. She laid her cup aside and stood without realizing that she had done so, instinctively moving to Erik's side. The girl's eyes fell on Christine, and her smile instantly disappeared.

"Isabella," said Erik, "I would like to introduce you to Christine Daaé."

Isabella looked at her impassively, finally saying, "You are the French woman? The one Erik never spoke of before."

"Isabella," Sophia admonished. "You will be polite to our guests!"

The girl stiffened her spine and coldly looked at her sister, "I have asked Roberto to stay for supper. I hope you do not mind."

Shaking her head in tired acceptance of her younger sister's conceited air, she sighed, "Yes, he may stay." Turning to Christine, Sophia said apologetically, "My sister often speaks before she thinks. Please forgive her."

Christine forced a crooked smile, though she doubted that it was very convincing, and murmured, "Of course."

Isabelle huffed indignantly, and haughtily excused herself to refresh her appearance before supper, all but ignoring the poor young man, who must be Roberto, hovering dejectedly near the door of the parlor.

Christine glanced at Erik, who seemed either completely unaware of the girl's obvious adoration of him, or completely unconcerned by it. Inside she began to seethe, feeling the first unwelcome embers of jealousy smolder to life. She recalled what Alonzo had said about his daughter not being able to catch Erik's eye, and she wondered just how long the girl had been making the attempt.

_And why did Erik fail to mention this to me?_

The object of her wonderings ignored Isabella's behavior and instead addressed the young man. "Come here, Roberto. I would like you to meet Christine."

Roberto stepped obediently into the room, shyly dropping his gaze, and Christine found herself smiling at him. The boy (or rather man, for she suspected that he was older than she) was obviously rather intimidated by Erik, as were many men. He was not what one could call handsome; his nose was a touch crooked and his sandy brown hair stuck up in odd directions, but he had very nice eyes…a soft, pale blue.

"This is Roberto Cipriano," Erik said, "a promising young architect."

Roberto embarrassedly corrected, "I am only an apprentice, signorina."

"Erik seems to think that you have talent," she looked at her lover knowingly, "and I assure you that he has never been wrong about such things."

Roberto grinned suddenly, clearly pleased to have Christine reassure him of Erik's good opinion. "Grazie, signorina. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Enough with the small talk," interjected Sophia. "It is time to eat now."

As the party began to exit the parlor, Roberto flashed an endearingly lopsided smile at Christine, and Erik held her back from following the group, lowly teasing, "You have won over yet another adoring admirer, mon ange."

With a raised brow, she said, "And seemingly made an enemy."

He chuckled, "You are referring to Isabella?"

"You might have warned me that she fancied herself in love with you," she accused sourly.

His gemstone eyes grew wide and his visible eyebrow arched almost comically as he stuttered, "_In love _with me? You cannot be serious, Christine. She is but a child."

Christine glared at him. Could the man really be so utterly oblivious? "Hardly a child, Erik. She is older than I was when you took a romantic interest in me!"

He looked poised to argue with her when his face suddenly lit with understanding and a wicked grin curved his lips. "Can you really be jealous?"

She crossed her arms under he breasts and challenged, "Have I reason to be?"

His grin softened, and he lifted gentle fingers to lovingly caress her cheek. "You, more than anyone, know the answer to that."

He tipped her chin up and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to her lips, and her eyes fluttered closed in pleasure. She knew in her heart, in her very soul, that she had no reason to doubt Erik's love for her, yet she had never fully considered that another woman might want him. His past was too dark and frightening, and his temper at times unpredictable. Even she, who knew him so well, and knew that she could not be without him again, sometimes wondered if she must be mad to love him.

_I welcome madness_, she thought dreamily.

"We had best join the others, before Sophia comes looking for us," he said with a smile. She nodded and took his proffered hand, only to notice Isabella Rivaldi standing a few feet away with an icy look of disdain upon her beautiful face.

Supper was bound to be a memorable event.

* * *

**¹**_Requiem_ - Verdi's version of the Mass premiered in Milan in 1874. 

**Italian:  
**_Mio amico _My friend  
_Grazie, dolce angelo_ Thank you, sweet angel  
_Prego _You're welcome  
_Dormi bene _Sleep well

* * *

**A/N: **I know that some of you are grinding your teeth over the yet-to-be-resolved ending of Chapter One, but all things must come in their time. I ask you to indulge me with your patience until Chapter Nine, when I will take you back to that opening scene. Please bear with me until then, which at my posting rate will be little more than one week from now. 

I have gifted you with an extra chapter this week for your trouble.

Thank you to my faithful reviewers, and I hope you will continue to enjoy the story (even if I am taking my time leading you back to that dramatic introduction.)

I remain, your obedient authoress…pzp.


	5. Friend or Phantom

**Friend or Phantom**

As Christine had predicted, the meal shared around the huge table in the dining room of Sophia and Franco Miele was nothing if not memorable. The children had all noisily been consigned to eat in the kitchen with their nanny, for which Christine had been secretly grateful. They were absolutely wonderful children, if a bit rambunctious, as children so young are wont to be, but the conversation that had taken place amongst the adults was not entirely suitable for impressionable young ears.

At first, the meal had been pleasant enough, with Franco finishing his dissertation on _Faust_ with no little debate from Erik. Sophia had asked Christine all about Venice and life in the theater, sparking a barrage of amusing tales about the backstage dramatics. The agreeable conversation had all gone wrong just before dessert with a very simple question from Sophia.

"So Christine, you must tell me how you and Erik first met. He tells us only that he knows you from Paris."

Christine felt Erik tense beside her, and she hesitated, knowing that to say too much could be disastrous for him, so she simply said, "We met at the opera."

A dreamy looked came over Sophia's face, and she sighed, "Ah…he heard you sing and could not resist."

"Something to that effect," murmured Christine with downcast eyes. She vividly recalled the first time that she had heard Erik's voice gently calling her name in the chapel. The soft musical tenor had echoed through the air just after she had finished sobbing through her prayerful song to her father, and she had been terrified, thinking that she was either going mad, or that the chapel must be haunted. Little had she known how right she had been…on both counts, it seemed. Glancing around the table with an embarrassed smile, she said, "My voice had not yet been trained when Erik took notice of me. I was a mere member of the chorus and ballet."

"Love at first sight," Sophia said with an adoring gaze at her husband.

Christine looked away in shame, knowing that was not at all how it had been. She could sense Erik's quiet brooding and knew he was remembering, as she was, the first time she had truly _seen _him.

_Fear can turn to love_, she thought sadly_. If only I had known then…_

Isabella, who until that moment had been silently concentrating on her plate, met Christine's guilty eyes with disdain, and snorted, "If you love him so much, where have you been for the past three years?"

Christine gasped in surprise at the direct question, even as Sophia scolded, "Isabella, silenzio!"

"No, Sophia," the younger woman challenged, "you wonder this as well, but you are too afraid to ask."

"It is not polite," her sister admonished.

"Polite? Why must I be polite? We have only just met this woman, and you wish to cater to _her_!" Isabella glared at Christine, cruelly demanding, "Tell me _Christina_, why has Erik never even spoken your name in all the time that we have known him?"

"That is quite enough, Isabella," Erik said lowly, the menace in his seemingly calm tone lost to everyone save Christine. His fingers were curled tightly around his fork, and she reached out to cover his hand with her own, silently urging him not to respond to Isabella's rant while her own stomach knotted with apprehension.

The girl witnessed the gesture between the couple and shook her head in disbelief. "No, Erik," she cried, shaking off poor Roberto's fruitless attempt to calm her by echoing Christine's action. "A woman who loves you would have stayed beside you, proudly wearing your ring and giving you bambini."

Christine sat frozen in muted dismay as the accusation flew free and hit its mark. She could feel Erik's muscles tightening under his skin where her arm rested against his, and her own body seemed stubbornly unresponsive as the angry words continued unabated around her.

"Isabella," Sophia shouted, abruptly standing and grabbing her sister's arm. "You have gone too far. You will apologize at once and leave this table."

Isabella jerked out of the older woman's grasp, rising furiously from her seat and waiving her hand toward Christine. "You choose _her_ over your own sister? This woman who disrespects you by seducing her lover under your own roof!"

Christine drew in a shocked breath, her free hand fluttering to her lips as Erik's fist jerked violently under her other hand. His entire body was coiled in silent rage and ready to strike. Isabella, oblivious to all but her own victory, continued triumphantly, "I saw them with my own eyes in the hallway making love."

Sophia growled, "I do not care if they were naked on my floor! It is none of your concern!"

Without even batting an eye at her sister's blistering temper, she yelled, "You defend this French…_tart_?"

The thunderous crash of a chair flying backward into the wall echoed through the room as Erik stood, violently sending wine glasses shattering around him as he nearly flew across the table, growling sadistically at Isabella, "You _vicious spiteful little demon_! _One more word_…and _you will _regret it!"

The entire room fell quiet as Erik trembled with fury. Isabella shrank down fearfully into her chair, frightened tears beginning to stream from her eyes. Christine dimly imagined that she must have once had that very same expression upon her face at having been so brutally introduced to the Phantom. She placed a hand lightly on her angel's arm, gently calling him back, "Erik."

He started at her voice, and turned his masked face to look back at her in confusion. Awareness flashed in his eyes, and he drew a ragged breath, straightening away from the table and looking suddenly mortified by his behavior. "Forgive me," he muttered, then turned to grasp Christine's hand…his expression bleak.

She offered him a watery smile as she stood, elegant in her movement despite her stuttering heart. Franco straightened from his chair then and forcefully said, "You have done nothing that must be forgiven. _We_ must beg your forgiveness. You do not deserve to be treated so, and I assure you that _Isabella_," he said with a sharp look to the weeping girl, "does _not _speak for my family."

"Thank you, Franco," Christine managed with grace. "You have been so very kind, and Sophia," she said to the shaken woman across from her, "the meal was wonderful, but I think that Erik and I really must take our leave now. If you will excuse us."

"Please, Christine," Sophia whispered tearfully, "I am so very sorry. My sister…she knows nothing of life. You will come back, yes?"

Christine attempted a small smile and nodded, "If you will have me."

"Of course," insisted Sophia. "Of course."

Franco moved to see them out, asserting his role as head of the household and seeking, no doubt, to repair some of the damage his sister-in-law had caused with her acidic tongue. Before Christine left the room, she turned and looked at the shaken girl who had only moments before been on the attack. "Isabella," she said regally, "you really should not presume to speak on matters of which you know nothing…but I forgive you."

xXx

The brougham set forth toward the Villa della Luce carrying its passengers and a thick air of tension. Christine examined Erik's face carefully, or rather tried to, as his mask was turned toward her and she could only imagine that his face was every bit as impassive. She reached out to cover his hand with her own, tracing her thumb gently over his knuckles.

"I am sorry, Christine," he muttered, never moving his gaze from the window. "You should never have been subjected to such a scene."

She was left to wonder if he was referring to the cruel words that Isabella Rivaldi had thrown at her, or his spectacular display of temper. "I am fine, Erik, but I am concerned for you."

He turned with anger glittering in his eyes, "_I_ was not the one so cruelly attacked. Isabella has always been something of a spoiled child, but she has never before been so _malicious_."

Christine sighed, grudgingly admitting, "Nothing that she said was entirely untrue."

Indeed, the truth in Isabella's words had ripped open old wounds and doused them with salt. Christine _had not _fallen in love with Erik at first sight, nor had she loved him enough to stand beside him when he had most needed her. He had spent the last three years alone, battling his demons in order to build a life for himself, and she had been nowhere to be seen. She had simply walked back into his life little more than two months ago and expected to reclaim her place in his heart without having done anything to deserve the venerable position. Had Nadir not eluded to this very fact just that morning?

"She had no reason to assume that you were the cause of our separation," Erik accused, breaking into Christine's self flagellation.

"Nor had she any reason to assume otherwise," she insisted. "You are the one that they count as a friend."

Erik's eyes slid away from her, returning to the passing scenery beyond the glass. "I am afraid that tonight may have irreparably changed their opinion of me."

She recalled the matching looks of stunned disbelief upon the faces around the table, and asked, "They have never seen your temper, have they?"

"No," he sighed, "and I had hoped that they never would."

Christine turned his hand over and laced her fingers through his, smiling softly as she rested her head upon his shoulder. "That girl could try the patience of a saint."

A humorless laugh rumbled from deep in his chest. "And we both know that I am _far_ from a saint."

"So am I, it would seem. I wanted to scratch her eyes out, Erik," she confessed.

A long, silent moment passed before he whispered, "I could have killed her. Perhaps I have not changed so very much after all."

Christine lifted her head from his shoulder and turned his face to hers. "You mustn't think that, Erik. You may have frightened Isabella, but I have seen you at your worst. That you restrained yourself as you did, and for the three years before, is a testament of how much you _have _changed."

He cupped his hand over hers where it rested upon his unmasked cheek, and turned his face to press a kiss to her palm. "You are too good to me."

"Someone should be," she murmured, feeling the warmth of his mouth seep through her skin and race down her arm to flutter wildly in her heart before taking up residence deep within her womb.

"I promise that I will never again force you into such an uncomfortable situation, mon ange."

"Oh, Erik," she said with gentle smile. "Apart from the disastrous ending, I rather enjoyed meeting everyone. Although you were certainly not exaggerating when you told me that they could be a touch overwhelming."

Dryly, he intoned, "You have no idea."

xXx

When they arrived at the villa, Erik's mood was still dark, as evidenced by his immediate retreat into his office. Christine sensed that disturbing him would be unwise (and she was trying to be wiser these days.) She knew that, despite her earlier reassurances, his outburst at the Miele residence was weighing heavily upon him. He constantly battled his darker nature, and the years of expressing his rage without remorse were difficult to overcome. She was more than a little worried, too, that he might be obsessing over Isabella's accusations, and deciding that perhaps the young woman had made a valid argument against Christine.

With no Erik to occupy her time, and her emotions too precarious to retire so early to bed, she wandered toward the library thinking to select a book that might distract her. Upon entering, she decided that the Fates must be having a grand laugh at her expense on this day, for there in his usual chair sat Nadir Kahn; the volume in his hands was now _Othello_.

"Do you only read the tragedies?" she inquired sourly.

His brow arched in surprise as he looked up at her with hooded eyes. "I find them more realistic," he said. "Life is filled with pain, mademoiselle."

"That is a very fatalistic view, and please call me _Christine_." She was finding his persistent formality to be utterly maddening.

"Very well, Christine," he said agreeably. "Tell me, have you found much in this world to laugh about?"

She sighed, "Perhaps not as of yet, but I remain hopeful."

A genuine smile appeared upon his face, and he nodded, "As well you must, to love a man such as Erik."

Christine looked away, her gaze finding the flickering reflection of the gas lamp in the darkened window. "It would seem," she said dully, "that my attachment to him has been a subject of some debate today."

Nadir stared at her quizzically for a moment, then his face cleared in understanding. "Ah, you have met Isabella." When Christine looked back at him sharply, he chuckled, "I suspect, by your melancholy, that she did not embrace you with open arms."

"With claws extended," she huffed.

"Mmm…yes, I suppose that I should have warned you of that likelihood. The girl has always had quite an…_affection_…for Erik."

Christine crossed her arms and glared at the Persian, who seemed to be having a touch too much amusement at her expense. "So I had noticed."

He laughed again, "You need not worry, little one. Erik sees no one but you." Nadir suddenly sobered. "Isabella Rivaldi could never have hoped to be a match for him," he eyed her carefully, and smiled, "but I think, perhaps, you will do very well indeed."

Christine could not stop the flush of pleasure that colored her cheeks at the Persian's admission. He might still have his worries regarding the future of her relationship with his friend, but it seemed that Nadir was beginning to accept her, and she felt a tingle of pride at having won, at least in part, his approval. She would need his support in her plan to make a life with Erik.

For better or worse.

* * *

**A/N: **A word about the Persian. I have been having a great deal of fun with these little scenes. My version of Nadir doesn't hesitate to speak his mind to Erik, and neither does he sugarcoat it for Christine. He's seen the damage that they can do to one another, and while, deep down, he wants them both to find happiness, he feels the need to keep testing them to determine if they are truly ready for the difficult path that they have embarked upon. He is, in his own way, trying to protect them both…and perhaps, as Christine thinks, he's having a little too much fun doing so. 

I hope you continue to enjoy. Feedback is always welcome.


	6. The Soul Obeys

**The Soul Obeys**

Over breakfast the next morning, Erik seemed free of the demons that had plagued him the night before, and he casually inquired if Christine wished to explore some of the city, to which she eagerly replied that she would. She had acted as his guide in Venice, showing him the magic of the city that she had so fallen in love with, and now it was his turn to proudly introduce her to his home.

He took her first to the Duomo de Milano; its towering spires and sprawling mass second in Italy only to the Vatican itself. She was surprised by his pleasure in showing her the cathedral, knowing as she did that he was not a religious man and had very little faith, but upon seeing the utter majesty of the building, she understood. Erik's creative soul could not hope to resist such a monument to art and architecture. A menagerie of nature's beasts were carved into the marble columns bordering the massive door, and the sculptures and paintings within were among the most beautiful that Christine had ever seen. They both spent quite some time in the Duomo appreciating its grandeur.

Erik patiently relayed to her the history of the church, on which construction had begun in 1386, and had had been underway for nearly five centuries before Napoleon himself had demanded its completion prior to being crowned king of Italy. There was even a tribute to the French emperor atop one of the spires. The design had been greatly influenced by a French engineer, Nicolas de Bonaventure, and later, another Frenchman, Jean Mignot, had served as an architect. Even now, there were constant renovations being performed to the church. Christine loved listening to Erik speak so eloquently of his knowledge, and she felt almost as though she were his student once again.

After leaving Piazza del Duomo, they walked through the Galleria, weaving in and out of the little shops under its brilliant glass archway, and Christine basked in the delight that effused Erik's face at simply having her upon his arm. He indulged her every whim, offering to buy every bauble that she saw, and she had to laughingly stop him from spending a fortune on her. Though she did allow him to gift her with a beautiful gold necklace, its delicate pendant formed in the shape of a tiny angel.

They dined at Savini at a little table in the midst of the restaurant's red carpets and elegant cut glass chandeliers, enjoying their meal of cotoletta di vitello and risotto. Yet the superb food paled in comparison to what Erik had planned for the evening's entertainment.

Adjacent to the Galleria was the grand façade of _Teatro alla Scala_, luminous with oil lamps in the growing twilight and its lavish interior beginning to pulse with the energy of a night at the opera. The Milan season differed from Venice by a few weeks, and final performances of _Rom__é__o et Juliette _were still highly anticipated. Christine was afforded the unique opportunity to view the opera with Erik in his palchi. They sat side by side, her hand tucked into his, as the stage came alive with Gounod's adaptation. The soprano unquestionably possessed superior talent, as did every performer who graced the stage of _La Scala_. Such excellence was to be expected of the finest opera house in Europe. Yet after only a few notes of _Juliette's_ ariette, '_Je veux vivre,' _Erik leaned over to whisper, "Her voice cannot compare to yours, my dear."

After the curtain had fallen upon the tragic ending, they returned to the villa wrapped up in one another and the bliss of sharing their greatest passion. The household was quiet, and Nadir was nowhere to be seen, so they quietly climbed the stairs to retire for the evening. Stopping in front of the room that he had assigned to Christine, the adjoining suite to his master bedroom, Erik brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Did you enjoy the performance, mon ange?"

"Very much so," she murmured, looping her arms around his neck. "I rarely have the chance to attend the opera as a member of the audience."

His hands came to rest on her lower back, and he chuckled, "You are ill suited for it, I think. I could hear you humming the role of _Juliette_ under your breath."

"My apologies," she said through a smile, though her tone was hardly sincere. She had unabashedly imagined herself upon that stage.

"Never apologize for your passion, Christine."

His eyes were glittering with desire, and she did not have the will (or the inclination) to resist. She wound a hand into his hair, breathing against his lips, "Then I will not apologize for this." She kissed him then, tasting the leashed power of his response as she shifted impatiently against him, wanting to enflame him…to drive him beyond reason until he claimed her completely.

They had made love many times since finding their way back to one another, and each time they seemed to become more perfectly in tune; a flawless symphony of passion. Yet Erik continued to hesitate before every joining as though he expected her to wake up from a dream and turn away in disgust. She prayed that one day soon he would understand that she was wide awake and fully accepting of the man she welcomed so eagerly into her bed…and into her body.

Christine slid her fingers sinuously across the skin of his throat and down over his collar until she gripped the lapels of his coat. She bit playfully at his lower lip before she stepped backward through her open door, tugging him with her. He chuckled lowly as he allowed himself to be led, "My angel has become quite the devil."

His deep, rumbling voice sent shivers of desire coiling through her body, and she pressed a kiss to his chin as she stripped his mask away, murmuring, "Let me show you heaven."

He reacted as she had known he would, growling impatiently as he closed the door behind them with a fluid motion and gathered her into the circle of his arms. His feeble restraint gave way entirely, and he feasted upon her mouth, drinking deeply of her need and stirring her hunger for him. Her nimble fingers unhooked buttons in remembered efficiency, greedy to touch his skin.

She had long ago ceased caring about the rules of propriety. Her reputation had been soiled in Paris by sins that she had not even had the pleasure to commit, and she could find no penitence in realizing them now. The rapture that she found in this expression of their love could not be wicked…not when it brought them both such ineffable peace. Perhaps they had not yet been bound by the laws of man and church, but deep in her heart, Christine felt certain that they had been bound by God himself.

"Erik…I love you," she whispered fervently against his lips.

He drew back slightly, his eyes meeting hers, and she saw the adoration evident in those fathomless green-blue pools. Making love to her was sacred to him, and he always worshipped the gift of her body with awed reverence. He brushed his fingers over her flushed cheeks, tracing his thumb across her full lower lip. "Oh Christine." Her name was a breath against the corner of her mouth as he continued his veneration with tender insistence, raining feathery kisses across her face. "My love."

Her gown loosened as if by magic and dipped to bare her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She shuddered as his mouth began a slow path down her throat toward her exposed flesh. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she let her head fall back and surrendered herself to his will. He undressed her slowly, savoring each removed layer with frustrating leisure, until she was whimpering with need.

In utter contrast to his elegant seduction, Christine clumsily pushed at his stubborn shirt, nearly ripping it in her haste to remove it. Erik smiled at her impatience and obediently aided her in the task of removing his clothing until they were both naked before one another.

He enfolded her in his arms once again; the slide of flesh against flesh creating an irresistible friction. Lifting her against him, Erik carried her to the bed and gently lowered her upon the mattress. He settled his powerful body next to hers and began his adoration once again, leaving no part of her wanting for attention. His first explorations of her body had been uncertain, his inexperience in such matters requiring studious attention to every feature, and each of her responses had been catalogued and examined. He had learned her body as he might a fine instrument, and like the prodigy that he was, he had soon mastered the ability to play her to perfection.

He drove her to the very edge of ecstasy, allowing her to linger there endlessly before he slowly made them one. She met his eyes as he filled her, surrounded her, melted into her…mere words failed to adequately express the beauty of their joining. They moved together in a dance as old as life itself, yet uniquely their own, until the music of their love built to a crescendo and finally crashed in waves of bliss, leaving them shattered and shivering in each other's arms.

Boneless and sated, Christine made no protest when Erik shifted to position her against his side. She quite happily snuggled into him, her curls spilling over his shoulder as she began to tumble into sleep. The last thing she heard before her dreams claimed her was his sweetly whispered, "I love you."

xXx

The first thing Christine noticed upon waking was the absence of her lover. The warmth of his body had permeated her dreams, and she was coldly disappointed to find him missing from her bed…until she turned her head toward his pillow and saw the rose.

A single perfect bud of the deepest red, with its stem carefully stripped of thorns and adorned with a black ribbon, rested beside her. She smiled lazily at its beauty; her sleepy eyes catching a sparkle of gold in the morning light. Curious, she brushed her fingers over the stem, turning the flower just slightly until she saw the secret it had hidden.

Tied upon the ribbon was a ring; a perfect oval ruby set between two tiny pear shaped diamonds. She gasped and quickly sat up, bringing the rose with her as the silk sheet slipped from her upper body.

"I considered giving you back the one that I once took from you," came a deep voice from the shadowed corner, "but I prefer that the ring you shall wear upon your finger be free of painful memories."

Erik stepped forward with a hopeful smile upon his unmasked face, dressed in his customary black trousers and his white shirt gaping open. Christine gazed at him with her heart in her throat as she unconsciously pulled the sheet up to cover her nakedness. Her fingers were trembling and her eyes were already moist with tears, yet she was determined that she would not fall to pieces before he had even asked her the question that must certainly accompany such a ring.

Finally finding her voice, she breathlessly whispered, "And…why should I wear this ring upon my finger, Erik?'

She watched his smile die a slow death, and his glittering eyes grow dark and bleak, and she instantly regretted her teasing words. "If you…do not wish to accept it," he muttered with face averted.

"I do," she insisted quickly. "Very much…but you must ask me, Erik," she added.

He looked at her with guarded longing and immediately knelt beside the bed, taking the rose from her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Christine Daaé," he murmured as he leveled his gaze upon her. "Will you have me as your husband?"

"Yes," she said on a shaky breath. Her tears fell freely over her cheeks and her heart took flight at the thought of a lifetime with Erik. "Oh yes, my angel, I will have you," she said with confidence. "I will proudly wear your ring and give you bambini."

His hesitant smile faltered and his face visibly paled at her words; the perfect echo of those that Isabella Rivaldi had thrown at her. "B…bambini," he stuttered, "Christine…you are not…?"

She chuckled through her tears at his incredulous expression and shook her head in reassurance. "No, Erik," she paused in consideration, adding, "At least in as far as I am aware." She had not been with child upon arriving in Milan, of that much she could be certain, but she knew not what miracles they might have made in the days since her arrival. "I speak of the future," she said with a smile.

Christine watched the emotions play across his countenance, from the unmasked joy in her acceptance of him, to the quiet storm that had appeared in his eyes at her mention of children. She wondered at it, considering for the first time that he may not welcome such a possibility into their lives, and the thought saddened her. Would the imperfection of his face always cast such an unbearable shadow over them? The question would have to be dealt with…but not today.

Erik swallowed heavily, determinedly dismissing the subject by insisting, "I would prefer to concentrate on the present."

Christine silently granted him the reprieve as he deftly separated the ring from the rose and slipped it onto her finger. He stared at it resting there for a long moment before bringing it to his lips for a reverent kiss.

"I hope that you will have mercy upon me and agree to a short engagement."

She cupped his face with her hand, allowing the sheet to slide away as she softly kissed him. "Oh, Erik," she whispered. "I think that we have waited long enough."

A slow smile graced his face and he began to laugh, happiness bubbling from deep within. Christine reveled in his unreserved joy and embraced him, pulling him back into her bed and sealing their promise as a wife should.

* * *

**Historical Note:**  
The _Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II _was built between 1865 and 1877...so I've fudged the dates just a little. The building certainly would have been there in some form when Erik and Christine strolled Piazzas del Duomo and della Scala.

* * *

**A/N: **There is that 'M' rating again. And the fluff. 

Hmm...and a mention of _that_ ring again, but our dear Erik finally gave Christine _his own_ ring.

As always, thank you for continuing to read, and thank you to those who are kind enough to review.


	7. Stay By My Side

**Stay By My Side **

Less than two weeks after Erik's proposal, Christine stood beside him in the Basilica of Sant'Ambrogio Their presence in the cathedral was not for the happy occasion of a wedding, but for the somber event of a funeral mass.

Alonzo Rivaldi had finally taken Death's hand, and half of Milan had come to pay their last respects. Six of his seven daughters and their families en masse packed the front pews of the church. They clung together, sharing their grief and drawing comfort from one another. Erik had never felt more lost and out of place than he did as he gazed upon the Rivaldi clan, coveting that which he would never have, but for Christine.

He gripped her hand tightly, struggling with an unfamiliar sorrow at the loss of his friend and partner. He, a man who had carelessly taken unfulfilled lives without remorse, now mourned the death of a man who had lived a full, happy life and died peacefully surrounded by those he loved. Erik was ashamed to count himself amongst that group. As if sensing his mood, Christine squeezed his hand reassuringly, and he glanced down to see the ruby upon her finger sparkling in the reflected light of the stained glass windows. He did not deserve such an angel, yet he was too selfish to give her up.

The funeral procession wound through the streets of Milan toward the Cimitero Monumentale. There among its eclectic milieu, Alonzo Rivaldi was laid to rest under a final towering memorial. His daughters formed a semi circle around the coffin, presenting a sight that was beautiful in its tragedy…Alonzo's legacy. Sophia leaned heavily into Franco's steady arms, their children long faced and quiet in front of them. Isabella clung tightly to young Roberto's hand, trembling with grief and looking lost and helpless. Marcella, Elisabetta, Gabriella, and Allesandra all sobbed in the arms of their husbands, surrounded by their countless children. Each of them had been more precious to Alonzo than any building that he had ever designed.

Only when Erik returned to the privacy of his villa did he allow himself to break down in Christine's arms. His quiet remorse had pressed outward from the weight upon his heart until his breath had had come in stuttering gasps and his limbs had refused to carry him any longer. He buried his head in his hands and wept as his angel held him, her own tears burning his skin. Sorrow soon turned to anger and he spit curses at God for taking good men such as Alonzo and leaving monsters like himself to live, only to be stunned from his anguish by the forceful pressure of Christine's hands upon his face as she sharply turned his gaze to hers.

"Do not _ever_ say such a thing again," she demanded vehemently. "You are not a monster, Erik. You are as human as Alonzo was, and you must be thankful now that his suffering has been relieved. God's will is not for us to question. For every test He issues, He grants a miracle. By all rights, you and I should not be here now, but He has brought us together at long last."

"Oh, Christine," he choked, "you are too good for the likes of me. "

She soothed him as best she could, but he knew the truth of his words. She was too _good_, too _innocent_. A better man would let her go, but he clung to her in desperation. He had none of her faith, but he praised whatever power existed for bringing her to him.

xXx

"Marry me, Christine," Erik said out of the blue two days later.

Christine lowered her book of poetry and looked at him queerly, asking with slight quiver of laughter in her voice, "Have I not already accepted your proposal?"

"I mean now, mon ange," he clarified. "Let us be married tomorrow."

She started at that, her mouth forming a perfect little circle as she stared at him. "Tomorrow," she parroted incredulously. "Erik, that is impossible!"

"Not so impossible," he insisted. "I have obtained a special license, and I can arrange for a priest to bless us at your bidding."

She shook her head in disbelief. "We cannot possibly arrange a wedding so quickly, Erik, and even if we could, it simply would not be proper to marry so soon after Signor Rivaldi has passed."

The unnecessary reminder of Alonzo's death forced the air from his lungs, and he slumped dejectedly in his chair. "I suppose that you are correct."

Christine regarded him thoughtfully, and placing her book upon the table, she arose from her chair and settled herself across his lap. His arm automatically curled around her tiny waist as he lifted his face to gaze at her.

"Erik, I am not going anywhere, you know," she said with a smile. "I will not change my mind."

He shrugged, "Perhaps I am feeling my mortality just now. We have wasted so much time."

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, "we do not need a license or a ceremony for us to begin our lives together. Those things are only a formality now."

He cocked his head and a slight grin appeared. "Does that mean that you will not require an outrageously large wedding?"

She cupped his face and ghosted a kiss over his lips. "I will require only you, my love."

"Certainly you have friends in Venice that you will wish to invite," he said. After all, she had been living there nearly as long as he had been in Milan.

"Surprisingly few," she admitted with a laugh. "La Daaé has only admirers. I have, perhaps, one or two people whom I might consider a friend, and even they know me only as I am now...nothing of who I once was." Christine's face grew suddenly sad as she added, "The only friends that I truly might wish to have at our wedding are in Paris."

Erik nodded in understanding, murmuring, "Madame Giry and her daughter."

"Yes," she agreed. "I miss them so."

He hesitated a moment before saying, "Perhaps we could arrange for them to travel to Italy."

"You would do that for me?"

He chuckled, "My dear, in case you have failed to notice by now, I would do anything for you."

She shivered a little in his arms, and he wondered if she was remembering all that he _had_ done already…good and evil. Sighing, she said, "As much as I would love to invite them, I know that to do so would only complicate matters. We would have so much to explain, and you would have to wait even longer to make me your wife."

"You will not mind a small ceremony."

"I demand one," she said with a grin. "Only you and I and Nadir," she paused, then amended, "and Sophia and Franco, if they so desire." A thoughtful little noise passed her lips before she added, "And perhaps Roberto as well, I think."

Erik's shoulders began to shake with silent laughter, and he said indulgently, "When the list is complete, you will let me know?"

A brilliant smile lit her face as she assured him, "Of course."

xXx

On the following day, Erik called upon Sophia Miele at her request. He had not seen her since the funeral, but had offered her his services should she find herself in need of anything and left her to grieve with her family.

"Erik, come inside, please," she said with moist eyes. She embraced him much as she always did, though her energy was muted in sadness.

He swallowed heavily, uncomfortable with such an unfamiliar situation. What was one supposed to say? A meager expression of condolence seemed woefully inadequate. "How…are you faring, Sophia?"

She inhaled shakily, smiling through the evidence of tears. "As well as can be expected. Papa…he was," she stifled a sob, inhaled deeply and pulled her shoulders back with poise. "His presence filled the house, you know, even at the end. Now it is just…empty."

"I am so…very sorry," he whispered, averting his eyes from her expression of grief.

"He is in a better place now, with mamma. She is probably cooking for all of Heaven…a welcome home feast for him."

Erik was as amazed by this woman's faith as he was by Christine's, but he nodded respectfully and heard himself say, "I am sure that you are right."

"Of course! I am my father's daughter, no? We Rivaldis are always right about these things." Erik laughed at that, and Sophia seemed to shake off much of her melancholy, asking, "Where is your futora sposa?"

"Christine thought it best to remain at the villa this afternoon."

Sophia's eyes narrowed and she demanded, "She knows that she is welcome in my home, yes?"

"Yes, Sophia," Erik said with a smile. "She only thought that you might desire privacy for whatever subject you wish to speak with me about."

Sophia clicked her tongue and nodded, "She is a nice girl, Erik. You are going to make her an honest one very soon, yes?"

He straightened in surprise, his eyes widening as he sputtered, "I…she…we…"

"Mio Dio," she chided. "I have eyes in my head, Erik. It is good that you asked her the question and gave her a ring, but it is not enough. You must stand before the priest al più presto. Papa wanted you settled, you know."

Erik cleared his throat nervously, "You would not be…offended…if I should plan a wedding while your family is still in mourning."

She shook her head and placed her palms on his shoulders, looking him squarely in the eyes. "Erik, I will be offended if you use Papa's death as a reason to delay your own life. It is already too much that you have promised to resolve his business affairs, you must not make your signorina wait…and besides," she added as her eyes misted again, "Papa loved weddings."

Erik was relieved at Sophia's easy acceptance, for he had been afraid that she would be disappointed in him for thinking of his own happiness so soon after Alonzo's death. He should have realized that she would understand. Smiling at her, he said, "As fond as I am of the subject of my marriage to Christine, I suspect that is not why you asked me here."

"Actually, it was one of the reasons, yes. The other is this," she said as she reached to the table and picked up a small box. She held it out for Erik to take, and he did so uncertainly. "Papa wanted you to have it," she added.

Erik carefully opened the lid, and was startled to see Alonzo's beloved gold pocket watch shining up at him. The metal was delicately etched with a tiny landscape of the man's first building. He had often boasted how his wife had snuck into his office and stolen the sketch to surprise him with the watch on Christmas. Erik shook his head in denial, "I cannot accept this."

He tried to push the box back into her hands, but Sophia would not take it. "You cannot refuse it, Erik. Papa left it for you. He had no sons to give it to, and too many sons-in-law and grandsons to choose from. It is yours now."

Erik was left speechless as he stared at the watch. "I…thank you," he choked.

Sophia patted his hand in sympathy. "See, that was no not so hard. You will wear it at your wedding, yes?"

xXx

Upon his return to Villa della Luce, Erik headed directly to his private office, avoiding any chance that he might be seen by Christine, or even by the meddlesome Persian. He mechanically scraped his chair against the hardwood floor and sank into it, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the gold watch that Sophia had insisted he accept.

He held it gingerly within the palm of his left hand and traced one finger along the delicate design; his eyes following the path of the tiny lines over and over. What could Alonzo have been thinking? His watch was not a gift to be given to a man such as Erik.

_But then_, he thought scathingly, _you never told him of your past, did you? Just as you have never told Christine_.

Erik had arrived in Milan with nothing to recommend him. He had been running from his life as the Phantom and from the heartbreak of losing Christine, merely looking for a new place to hide. Only Nadir's annoying persistence had prompted Erik through the door of Alonzo Rivaldi's office. He would have been content to sit in his library and watch the dust gather, but the Persian seemed to think that Erik had needed some form of respectable employment to distract him from his misery.

Music had been a painful impossibility for him, so he had thrown his hat into the architectural arena. Alonzo had taken one look at Erik's rough designs and taken him on as an apprentice, though he had not remained thus for very long before he had been overseeing his own projects.

Alonzo had never questioned his young partner's mask, nor his reluctance to discuss his life (or lack thereof) prior to arriving in Milan. The older man had cared only that Erik was a brilliant architect with a stringent demand for perfection in his efforts. They had shared a similar work ethic, and if nothing else, Alonzo had been pleased to finally have a protégé he could trust enough to impart his knowledge upon.

The watch in his hands was a symbol of the man's faith in Erik, completely unprecedented and based on half truths and evasions. It made his stomach churn with disgust to know how unworthy of such a gift he truly was…as unworthy as he was of Christine's love.

She insisted otherwise, of course. Believing that she had seen him at his worst in Paris, she thought herself fully prepared to battle whatever demons remained hidden from her. Yet those demons were amongst his deadliest. The lives lost to his madness in Paris were nothing to the blood he had spilled in Persia. Christine had indeed given her mind blindly.

_Can I allow her to give her soul?_

The only answer to be heard was the monotonous ticking of that little gold watch.

Time passed in measured increments, of which Erik failed to keep count, until the swirling haze of crimson that clouded his thoughts was intruded upon by the sweetly anxious voice of Christine Daaé.

"Erik?"

Sighing in resignation, he set the watch upon the desk, carefully laying out the fob, and leaned back in his chair. Running a weary hand over his left temple, he beckoned, "The door is unlocked, mon ange."

The latch clicked softly before the door slowly opened to reveal a worried Christine. Gentle footsteps brought her unerringly to his side, and she ghosted her fingers over his cheek, peering intently at his tired eyes and tight mouth.

With a frown, she asked, "How long have you been hiding up here?"

"Long enough," he answered dully.

She began to soothingly caress the hair at his temple, and Erik closed his eyes at the pleasure of her touch. "Was your visit with Sophia very difficult?"

"Far easier than it should have been," he replied vaguely. With a dismissive gesture to the watch, he said, "She wanted to gift me with that."

Christine turned to look at the object of his discontent, leaning forward to examine the piece in detail. "Oh, Erik," she exclaimed, "it's beautiful."

"Hmm," he grunted, "yes. Too beautiful for this beast."

Turning back to him sharply, she admonished, "That isn't true! Why must you continue to say such things about yourself?"

"Because, _my dear_," he muttered as he straightened from his seat, "they are fact. Despite whatever happy little lies you have told yourself to justify our union, you know nothing of the ugliness I possess within me."

"Only because you will not tell me," she cried. "These mysterious secrets that you stubbornly perpetuate do nothing but cause you misery. You must know that nothing you can say will turn me away from you now."

A bitter laugh escaped him as he turned on her, "Do not make such impossible promises, Christine. There is a reason that I have refused to tell you that which you are so curious to know. Had Alonzo ever discovered the truth of my past, I assure you that I would never have been gifted with his watch, much less trusted with his business. He would have held his torch high and led the mob to burn me from Milan."

She cringed at his harsh words, still insisting, "No…I do not believe you."

"But you will," he warned her ominously. He felt ill at the knowledge of what he must do, but the guilt that he felt at having so deceived Alonzo had been slowly poisoning his soul, or what little of it remained. He could see only one way to respect the memory of his friend and mentor.

"It is long past time that you meet the monster to which you have agreed to bind yourself in marriage."

* * *

**Italian:  
**_Futora sposa _bride to be  
_al pi__ù__ presto _as soon as possible

* * *

**A/N:** I am not overly pleased with this chapter, and I think it could be better, but here it is. 

Feedback is welcome.


	8. Always With Me

**Always With Me **

"You are not a monster," Christine persisted.

"Silence," Erik cut off her protest, "Sit down, Christine," pointing to the chair that he had abandoned. She sucked in a breath and stood staring at him for a long moment before wordlessly complying, as if sensing that he meant to reveal something that she had best not be standing for.

He inhaled deeply and turned away from her, knowing that, were he to look at her now, he would lose his courage.

"I first left the Opera Populáire when I was no more than seventeen," he began. "Until then, I had been content to live and play in my kingdom, greedy for the life that I saw pulsing in its secret backstage world. I was…almost happy there for a time, as I am certain that Madame Giry informed you during your tête-à-tête in Paris."

"Antoinette was my first friend in this world, and I came to rely on her presence. I had long since stopped needing her aid to sneak me into the kitchen or bring me supplies, for I had taken to stealing all that I required. Whispers of a ghost had begun to circulate in an attempt to explain the strange disappearances, but I had yet to delight in the role," he said with a humorless chuckle.

"Then Jules Giry entered the picture, and Antoinette informed me that she had accepted his suit. I had no desire to share her attention, and so I…reacted badly, venting my displeasure with an inelegant loss of temper. It was the first time that Antoinette had ever truly appeared frightened of me."

The memory was a painful one. Erik had spitefully severed his only tentative human contact all for the fear that he would once again become an unwanted burden, just as he had been to his mother.

"I angrily told her that she need not worry about her hideous little secret any longer, as I would be leaving Paris. True to my word, I was gone within the week."

"I began a journey east with only the meager supplies that I had stolen from the opera house, the Harlequin mask that I had long ago appropriated from the prop closet, and a violin that I had more recently liberated from the poor third chair who had so violently abused it. I foolishly believed that I might find more acceptance in the world as a man than I had as a child. I was wrong."

Behind him, he could hear Christine attempt to muffle a sniffle, but he forced himself to continue. "I attempted to survive as a traveling magician, performing the tricks that I had perfected during long, lonely days beneath the fifth cellar. I played the violin and sang, all for the few paltry coins tossed into my case. Far too often, the crowd that would gather to see me would turn to chants of '_take off the mask_,' and I would be forced to run or submit to the utter humiliation of their stares and screams before being beaten and left for dead."

Christine gasped, "Oh Erik…"

"Do not pity me, Christine," he growled with a glance back over his shoulder. "I had my vengeance upon the world that scorned me! I only needed to find my way to _Persia_."

He drew another breath, shaking his head as he continued to focus on the wall before him, scenes of blood and torture playing before his eyes. "The Shah ruled there…a vile, sadistic tyrant with a taste for the macabre. The story of a mysterious, masked magician reached his palace in Mazandaran, and he immediately ordered his chief of police to hunt me down and drag me to his throne room for his own amusement."

"Nadir," she queried softly.

"Yes, the Daroga," he confirmed. "I had no desire to perform like a trained monkey before the royal court, but Nadir swayed me with stories of the vast riches and jewels that the Shah possessed, and the promise that I might be made a wealthy man. So we journeyed to Mazandaran, and I soon found myself performing illusions before the Shah and all of his wretched minions. I was warned by the Daroga before arriving that no one refused the Shah and lived, and I understood what he did not say. Had he failed to persuade me to accompany him, he would not have been welcomed back to Mazandaran with his skin intact."

"Dear God," Christine whispered.

Erik sneered, "God had no dominion in that place, Christine." He finally turned to face her and was impressed that she was valiantly keeping her tears to a bare trickle. "I managed to amuse the Shah for a brief time, but, as everyone else before him, he soon asked that I remove my mask and show him my face. I denied him. Would that he had killed me outright for my insolence, but he had a more satisfying punishment in mind for me."

Christine squeezed her eyes shut as a shudder passed through her fragile frame, but Erik grit his teeth and pressed forward. "The Shah often took pleasure in watching blood sports, you see? Torture was a favorite. _Kindly_ leaving me my mask, he escorted me to a chamber, had me spread out upon a rack, and proceeded to have his displeasure for my disrespect demonstrated at the end of a whip. He meant for me to beg him, to grovel for forgiveness, but I had already suffered worse forms of torment in my young life. Thinking that I had little to lose, I withheld from him my screams of pain and proceeded to coldly offered him a critique of his primitive methods, teasing him with a hint of the more entertaining horrors that my fevered mind could envision."

Eyes still closed against the picture he painted for her, Christine pressed a hand to her mouth to quiet her sobs, and Erik turned his back to her once again. He could not bear to see her so, and he knew the worst of it was yet to be told. "The Shah was…impressed by my vision, and my utter lack of fear, I imagine, so he offered me a reprieve of sorts. I was to build him a new torture chamber, and should he be pleased with it, he might reconsider my punishment. As you might imagine, he received my gift with enthusiasm and commended my talent for creative deaths. Indeed, he offered me a chance at complete redemption…by becoming his assassin. I accepted."

The room was silent at his announcement, save the stuttering, gasping breaths of Christine as she wept.

_Poor girl_, Erik thought distantly, _to finally realize that she has allowed a cold blooded killer into her bed._

"I suppose that I could attempt to justify the lives that I took, and believe me, my dear, there were many, by the poor excuse that the deaths were all ordered by the Shah himself and, therefore, sanctioned in Mazandaran. Even Nadir could not arrest me for such reprehensible deeds, for he was forced to shamefully condone them. The executions that he presided over were as questionable as any mercenary act that I committed, though he always did think that I enjoyed my assignments a bit too much. The truth is that I simply never cared for any of the lives I took."

"At least, not until the day that I was ordered to kill a woman whose only offense had been denying the Shah the pleasures of her body," he added with his throat suddenly tight. "Before then, I had only disposed of his enemies…all men who undoubtedly would have been as vile and evil in the wielding of their power as the Shah had been. Yet this woman was no threat to him…merely the beautiful wife of an advisor whom he had coveted for many months. She had rejected his advances, and paid for it in blood…her husband arrested for treason, her body violated by the Shah, and still it was not enough. I was expected to kill her for nothing more than a desire to _keep her_ _promise_ to her husband. I refused the Shah for the second time, and I would not escape his wrath again."

Turning back to Christine, Erik cringed at the sight of her pale face and trembling shoulders. She was looking determinedly down at the floor, fearful of meeting his eyes, and his heart shattered into pieces at the knowledge that he had surely lost her once again. Exhaling raggedly, he forced himself to complete his tale.

"I was bound and brought before his throne. The Shah himself claimed the pleasure of slicing into my flesh…twisting the blade as he cut into my side. The lovely scar that you once so admired," he mocked as she nearly doubled over in misery before him. He hardened himself against her pain, and his own.

"He removed my mask, exposing my twisted face to his subjects, and then ordered that such a disgusting beast be removed from his sight…taken to the prison to bleed out slowly, or be executed come morning should I somehow survive the night."

"The Shah did not expect to be betrayed by Nadir, but the Daroga simply could not allow me to die. You see, for some reason, he felt responsible for me, as he had been the one to take me to that Godforsaken palace. He mended me as best he could, and left another unfortunate prisoner in my cell whilst he spirited me away from that place. How we managed to escape Mazandaran, I shall never fully understand, but we eventually found ourselves in Paris where I slithered back into my cellars beneath the opera house, and the rest, I think, you know."

Erik watched her silently weep and swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice nearly failed him as he whispered, "My carriage will be at your disposal, Christine. You may leave whenever you choose." Placing his hand upon the door, he bowed his head and choked out, "Thank you for…what little happiness you have given me."

He simply could not bear to stay in the room with her for one moment longer…to watch her finally turn from him in disgust. Jerking the door open, he disappeared down the hall, brushing past a lurking Nadir with a growl and heading as far away from his broken dreams as he could get.

xXx

"So now comes the true test of your love, little one."

Christine lifted her tear streaked face to look dazedly at Nadir, who stood at the threshold of the room. "I…I never imagined," she sobbed.

What had she expected? That Erik's past had been filled only with the pain that had been _inflicted_ _upon_ him? She had _seen_ him in Paris. She _knew_ the cold detachment that had taken the lives of Joseph Buquet and Piangi. Could she forgive him this? An assassin?

"He is the same man that he was yesterday," Nadir said harshly. "The only difference is that you now know what made him such. Just as _I_ am the same man…with the same blood upon my hands."

_And I am the same foolish little girl…but that is at an end as of this moment._

She stood shakily, wiping at her tears away as she whispered, "You saved him from that hell."

Nadir sighed, "I _placed_ him in that hell, Christine. You see now why I must make amends. Despite his genius, and his stubborn pride, Erik is still very much an abandoned child…surviving at any cost…always searching for any means of acceptance. Men like the Shah would take advantage of that. Yet for all the evil that he has seen and done, there is still goodness and beauty within him. You have _seen_ it," he reminded her emphatically. "Will you turn your back on him now?"

Christine shook her head sadly and stepped closer to Nadir, placing her hands upon his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his weathered cheek. "You and Erik have so little faith in me."

She left him standing there, no doubt looking after her in bewilderment. Her only concern lay ahead of her. Her wayward fiancé was off sulking somewhere and she would not have it. She had made a promise to him, and it was one that she intended to keep. Erik's past was just that…_the past_. If he believed that he could send her running from him _now_…yes, what he had revealed was horrible, but his confession could only free them from the shadow that had been clouding their future.

Instinct guided her to him, and she found him in the grove behind the villa staring off into the sky. They had sat there together on many an afternoon since her arrival in Milan, and she was grateful that he had not decided to disappear from the property entirely. She slipped onto the bench next to him, and heard his labored sigh.

"You need not feel obligated to say goodbye, Christine."

"I have no intention of saying any such thing," she rebuked.

His startled gaze collided with her loving one. "Mon ange," he whispered questioningly.

"I love you, Erik," she told him passionately. "Nothing that you have revealed to me has changed that fact."

She watched the muscles in his throat work convulsively before he finally managed to ask, "You would…still…have me?"

Christine smiled and took his hand firmly within hers. "I will," she vowed.

xXx

Three weeks later, Erik and Christine once again stood in the Basilica of Sant'Ambrogio, this time to vow their love before God and a few select friends. Nadir Kahn was positioned at Erik's side, looking more than a little uncomfortable in the midst of the Christian ceremony. A generous donation to the priest's dearest charity, and the connections that Erik had made in Milan were enough to smooth over the rough edges of this very unusual wedding mass.

Beside Christine was Sophia Miele, beaming in happiness to see her father's protégé finally wed. Her position of honor next to the bride had been born of the bond forged between the women after Alonzo's death, each having lost a father who had been so dear. Sophia had thrown herself into aiding Christine with wedding plans, as much out of her own generosity as a means to distract herself from her grief, and it had seemed only natural for Christine to ask the older woman to stand beside her during the ceremony.

Franco and the children, all on their best behavior, lined the front pew behind Erik. In the next row back, Roberto Cipriano sat next to Isabella. The young woman's attendance at the ceremony had been something of a surprise to Christine, considering her previous behavior, but Erik had suspected that Sophia was the deciding factor in her sister's quiet acceptance. The girl's hand was once again tucked into Roberto's, and it seemed that perhaps Alonzo's dearest wish might yet come true one day.

The pew behind Christine was occupied by her manager, Leonardo Dellano, and his wife, Theresa, a husky Italian woman with rosy cheeks and an outgoing manner. Next to the couple was a lovely young woman with auburn hair named Josette Perrault, the mezzo soprano at _La Fenice_. A native of Amiens in the north of France, she was one of the few members of the opera company that Christine considered a friend, and if Josette had ever heard of the events in Paris, she had never made mention of them…not even upon meeting Christine's intended.

Erik felt immense joy as he slid an engraved band of gold onto Christine's finger next to the ruby that she wore, and the feeling grew and swelled as she placed its mate upon his hand. At long last, the priest said his blessing and pronounced them as husband and wife. His angel's face was radiant with love for him as he bent to kiss her tenderly amidst the enthused applause of their guests, save Isabella perhaps. Erik had never in his life known such happiness as he did in that moment when Christine truly and irrevocably became his own.

_What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.

* * *

_

**A/N:** I've borrowed a great deal from Susan Kay for Erik's back story in Persia and attempted to weave it into the movie plot. He would likely have been gone for the years of Madame Giry's marriage and returned a year or so before Christine was brought to the Opera Populáire.

Again, not a favorite chapter, but a necessary one.

Next chapter…you all get to finally find out just what Raoul de Chagny wants with our diva.

Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	9. Slave Of Fashion

**Slave Of Fashion**

_Venice  
__Three months later  
__Backstage of Teatro la Fenice_

Christine Daaé Villon gasped audibly at the appearance of the Vicomte de Chagny in her dressing room. His handsome face was familiar, yet so dramatically changed from the man that she remembered; the once boyish features had been hardened by time, and his blue eyes were colder than she recalled. His dark blond hair no longer kissed his shoulders, but had been cut into a much shorter style and neatly combed back from his face, and a thin moustache now graced his upper lip.

Her hand unconsciously found the gold chain that fell between her breasts and held the ruby and gold bands that remained blessedly hidden beneath her dressing gown. The rings had safely rested there throughout the opera and had yet to be returned to her finger. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Erik had not been able to make the night's performance after all, for he surely would have murdered Raoul where he stood.

"Is my presence so shocking?" the Vicomte asked with little amusement.

Signor Dellano stood between them, gently cupping Christine's elbow with concern etched into every line of his face. She was thankful for his gentle support, as she was suddenly feeling rather light headed. "My apologies, cara," he soothed, "I will remove the gentleman at once, no?"

"Christine, please," Raoul interjected desperately, "I only wish to speak with you briefly. I promise that I will not keep you long." At her reluctant silence, he beseechingly added, "Do I not deserve at least five minutes of your time?"

Drawing a steadying breath, Christine forcibly composed herself and smiled wanly at her manager. "All is well, Leo. The Vicomte de Chagny is…an acquaintance from Paris. I will see him for a few moments."

Leonardo Dellano glared unhappily at the young man before him. "Very well. I will be just outside if you need me."

Christine gave a thankful smile, and turned her attention to Raoul as the older man disappeared behind the closing door. He stood anxiously in the middle of her dressing room, and her nerves began to tremble. She had not seen him in so very long, this man who had once been her love, and she felt overcome with guilt that she could not be happy to see him now. Indeed, her hard earned happiness could only be threatened by his very presence.

"Thank you for seeing me, Lotte," Raoul said kindly.

"Please don't call me that, Raoul," she replied more sharply than she had intended. "I have not been _Little Lotte _for a very long time." The reminder of their past was unwelcome in light of the turn her life had taken, during the past half year especially. She was a married woman now, though only a precious few people in Venice were aware of her newly acquired status.

A short bark of laughter escaped him as he shook his head. "No, I do not suppose that you have." With a raised brow, he bowed slightly to her and continued in lightly mocking tones, "In any case, I am grateful to be granted an audience with the great diva, _La Daaé_."

Temper sparking, Christine crossed her arms defensively over herself, mechanically pulling her robe tighter as she did so. "Did you come here specifically to insult me?"

His posture straightened, and the derisive smile faded from his face to be replaced by a shameful look of penitence. He pushed irritated fingers through his hair and spoke again with the soft, gentle quality that she so well remembered. "I apologize, Christine. I am botching this rather badly."

"I cannot see how it would be otherwise, given the situation," she said passively. Seeking to remove the awkwardness from the moment, she drew a fortifying breath and offered him a tentative smile. "What brings you to Venice?"

A cloud passed over his features, for just an instant, before clearing into a look of vague indifference. "The De Chagny family has a few…interests in Italy that required my attention," he smiled softly then, "and I could not ignore the opportunity to see you perform once again. You were magnificent."

"Thank you." She smiled in earnest at the compliment, silently praying that Erik would forgive her for her weakness in granting Raoul such a small token, however unwillingly.

"Perhaps," he broke off uncertainly, as if battling his own better judgment, then seemed to find his voice again. "Would you allow me to escort you to supper?"

Christine tensed in apprehension. _That_ privilege she could never again allow him. "I am sorry, Raoul, but I cannot."

He looked taken aback for a moment, then began to chuckle in amusement. He slanted her a knowing look. "Is this not moment when you inform me that your _Angel of Music _is very strict?"

Her entire being was suddenly flooded with dread, and her heart began to pound furiously beneath her breast. If Raoul knew of Erik's presence in her life once again, she feared that the inevitable confrontation could not end well. Calling upon her finest acting skills, she cloaked herself in indignation and pointed to the door. "Please leave!"

"Oh, Christine, forgive me. I did not mean to offend you," he insisted with an air of remorse. "It only occurred to me that we have played a variation of this scene once before."

His expression seemed sincere enough, and she could hardly rebut his words when she well remembered the night to which he referred...her debut in _Hannibal, _and the very moment that their lives had veered so horribly off course. She felt some of the tension drain from her, and she dropped her hand to her side, allowing his comment to pass without further mention.

"It has been a very long day, Raoul, and I am exhausted. I really cannot dine with you, and I must beg you to excuse me." She moved toward the door, intending to usher him outside, but he resisted, placing his hand over hers on the doorknob. She recoiled from his touch as though burned.

"Lunch, tomorrow?" he asserted, his face far too close to hers.

Christine drew back, shaking her head sadly. "Raoul, please don't."

He heeded her unspoken request for distance, and stepped away from her, but leaned back against the door in his own silent refusal to leave. "I have no interest in pursuing you romantically, Christine," he sighed, "but I do have an important matter to discuss with you and I simply will not leave until you have agreed to hear me out."

"If this matter is so important, then why not tell me now?"

His avowal that he did not wish to renew their ill-fated courtship eased her mind somewhat, but left her mystified to the purpose of his insistent invitation, and she waited expectantly for him to enlighten her. His next words seemed to her a complete change of subject, and she stared at him in confusion as he spoke.

"I came to see you perform once before, you know?" He straightened from the door and paced over to her dressing table, sliding his fingers over the petals of the white roses overflowing from the vases. "Almost two years ago, now," he continued as he gazed at the buds before him. "You had only just taken over as Prima Donna…the role of _Marguerite_ in _Faust_. I wanted to be certain that…that you were happy and well." He turned his attention back to her with a rueful smile. "I realized on that night that you were right to break our engagement. You are never more radiant than when you are on stage and lost to your music."

"Oh, Raoul," she sighed, feeling the awful sting of guilt once again. "I am sorry for the pain that I caused you."

He shrugged, waiving her apology away with a dismissive hand. "It is in the past, Christine. I prefer to focus on the present these days."

Christine forced a smile, praying that he meant the words he spoke. "I am glad to hear that, and I hope that you have been happy."

Such a look of sorrow settled over his features as she had never before borne witness too, not even on the night that she had broken their engagement. Moisture came unbidden to his eyes, and he mumbled, "I had been, until recently."

Compassion caused her to take an unconscious step toward him. "Why? What has happened?"

Raoul gazed at her bleakly, and whispered, "Philippe is dead."

"Oh, no," she gasped, her trembling fingers flying to her lips. She had never felt any real affection for Raoul's older brother, as he had been nothing but rude and dismissive toward her, but she knew how close the men had been despite their significant age gap. Indeed, the Comte Philippe de Chagny had been more a father figure to Raoul than a brother, and she knew that his loss would have devastated the younger man. "Raoul, I am so very sorry," she whispered hoarsely as she instinctually clasped his hands between hers in an attempt to pass some comfort to him.

"He died three months ago," he intoned with little emotion. "Killed in a duel, if you can believe that! Such an archaic notion," the anger was evident in his voice. Raoul had always had little use for the outdated customs that his brother had held so dear, and their father before them by all accounts. That old world tradition had been only one of the many reasons that Philippe had found his brother's engagement to a common opera singer to be profane.

"And the mess that he has left behind, Christine," Raoul continued sorrowfully, "you cannot even begin to imagine…all for me to clean up."

"I wish that I could help you in some way," the words came unbidden, thoughtless to any possible intent that he may have to that effect.

Raoul nodded, adjusting their entwined hands and looking deeply into her eyes. "There may be something you can do, if you will answer me honestly."

Her brow furrowed in bewilderment, at a loss to understand what he could mean to ask her that would ease his burden in any way, and she muttered, "I do not understand."

"My brother had some…journals," he announced, seemingly out of the blue. "The information contained therein was…nearly unbelievable. A good deal of it concerned…well…it spoke of a man…well, a child, really," he amended in a clear internal fight to properly express his meaning. "A child that may have been…seemed to describe…" He drew stuttering breath and chuckled without humor, "the Phantom."

The words fell powerfully into the charged air. Christine felt the moment close in around her, and another waive of dizziness assaulted her. She swayed forward slightly, and Raoul reached out to grasp her arms in an attempt to steady her. "Christine, are you alright?"

She shook her head dumbly, wordlessly struggling to understand why Raoul would believe that his brother would have any knowledge of Erik. "That cannot be possible," she insisted. "Why would Philippe make any mention of E…the _Phantom_ in these journals?"

Raoul did not answer her question, but instead stared intently at her countenance as if attempting to discern all of her deepest secrets. She began to feel a tingle of alarm race through her veins.

"Christine…I must know, have you seen him again?"

Christine attempted to draw a breath through the sudden tightness in her throat. She could understand nothing at the moment except the utter certainty that she must not let Raoul know the truth. Steeling her shoulders, she hedged, "Seen whom, Raoul?"

"Please Christine," he said in exasperation with a nearly imperceptible shake to her upper arms where his hands still rested. "You know very well whom. Has he come to you again, sought you out here in Venice?"

"No. I have not seen the Phantom again," she lied easily. She was certain that her face betrayed nothing of her deception, for she had not seen a trace of the Opera Ghost since Paris. Only Erik.

Raoul seemed to sag in defeat and his hands fell limply to his sides. "I was so certain…"

Frustration and fear sharpened her voice, causing her normally dulcet tone to become a touch shrill as she rapidly assailed him with questions. "Why would you be certain of any such thing, and what has any of this to do with Philippe? What are you not telling me, Raoul."

"You were my last hope, Christine," he confessed. "If you do not know where he is then I have no means of finding him."

_Finding him? _

Christine felt panic begin to bubble up from deep inside. She and Erik had finally found some long denied happiness in their lives, and she could not…_would not_…allow Raoul to strip it away. Clearly he had some mission to seek vengeance on her husband for whatever perceived sins that Erik had committed against the De Chagny family.

"What reason have you to find him?" she demanded harshly. "Raoul, please, I beg you not to seek him out! Erik cannot matter to you now…after more than three years."

"Erik?" Raoul's blue eyes narrowed dangerously, and Christine became horribly aware of her slip of tongue. "You know his name! You must have seen him!"

"No," she insisted helplessly, her mind grasping for a way to cover her mistake and alighting on the truth. "Madame Giry," she supplied, "She told me _everything, _Raoul. _Everything_." Including the fact that Raoul had been told some of Erik's unfortunate past after the Bal Masque and had failed to inform Christine of what he had learned. Her tone and flashing eyes fully conveyed her meaning to the man before her.

Raoul made no apology for his long ago deception. "Would that I had revealed her story to you then," he muttered. "Perhaps I would not be faced with such an impossible task now."

"Forget the past, Raoul," Christine pleaded once again, uncomprehending of what motive he could possibly have to seek her out after so many years in a reckless attempt to find then man who had once nearly killed him. He could only bring misery to them all. "You said yourself that you wanted only to focus on the present. You are the Comte de Chagny now."

He began to laugh cynically and the sound sent chills racing along her spine. "I am _not_ the Comte de Chagny, Christine," he finally hissed with a scowl upon his face, "my _brother_ is."

"But Philippe…" _Is dead_, she thought frantically.

"_Not _Philippe," he cut off cruelly. "Erik. _Erik_ is _my brother_. The rightful _Comte de Chagny_."

* * *

**A/N: **Yes…I went there. 

As I stated at the beginning of this fiction…this story is my attempt to solve the mystery never fully explained. It's not an original plot to be sure, after that annoying end to the movie where we are meant to believe the _Countess_ was supposed to be married to a _Vicomte._ However, I have yet to read an 'Erik is the Comte de Chagny' story that really satisfied me. At least, not one that is complete. So here you have my humble attempt.

Now you finally know what Raoul meant to ask of Christine that would surely change her life. Astute readers of _An Elysian Piece_ may even have seen this twist coming.

Feedback is welcome.

Thank you for the continued support.


	10. Stories Like This Can't Come True

**Stories Like This Can't Come True**

"Christine? Signora?"

Leonardo Dellano's soothing voice penetrated the black haze that surrounded her, and her eyes fluttered open as she attempted to pull herself back from oblivion. The first thing that registered was the worried face of her manager hovering over her, and the second was that she was lying prone upon the divan in her dressing room. For a moment, Christine remained confused as to how she had come to be in such a position, but then her gaze came to rest upon the nervous figure of Raoul de Chagny pacing in front of the door.

A shiver of dismay raced along her spine as she remembered his last words to her before the world had gone dark.

_'Erik is my brother'_

Dear God, it _couldn't _be true…such a twist of fate was beyond belief! Yet why must it be more unbelievable than everything else that had come to pass? Her heart was thundering in her ears, pumping dread through her system as the effects of his words fully took hold of her. She struggled to sit up, only to be pressed back by Leonardo.

"No, mia cara. You must rest," he insisted. "I have sent for the doctor."

Christine shook her head in adamant refusal. "There is no need, Leo. I am not ill," she vowed, despite the sudden rush of nausea swirling in her belly.

Raoul stepped forward then with his concerned blue eyes fixed upon Christine, even as he addressed Signor Dellano. "I am afraid that I gave Christine some rather shocking news."

Leonardo glared at the younger man and arose to stand protectively in front of Christine. "Did I not tell you to leave? Mio Dio, I should never have let you near her!"

Christine finally managed to sit up and reached out to grip Leonardo's hand, begging, "Please don't, Leo. No harm was done. I was only momentarily overwhelmed, just as the Vicomte said."

He observed her pale complexion warily. "You look most unwell, Christine."

"You mustn't worry so, Leo," she said. "Please go and stop the doctor from coming. I must finish speaking with the Vicomte."

Leonardo looked ready to argue, but was stopped by the determined look in Christine's eyes. He nodded curtly, clearly unhappy to leave her alone once again with the man who had caused her such distress, and then he did as he was asked with a final glare of warning to Raoul.

Once again alone with her former fiancé, Christine sat staring at him in bewilderment whilst her mind struggled to process what had been revealed to her. She studied his aristocratic features, searching for some resemblance to Erik, and she found none. Perhaps there might be some small similarity around the mouth and chin, but that was hardly proof of his claim. Apart from his insistence that Philippe de Chagny's journals revealed some, as yet unknown to her, information, he had not given her a reason for his belief that Erik was somehow a De Chagny.

As if reading her mind, or the unmasked skepticism in her eyes, he said, "You do not believe me."

"Can you blame me? My God, Raoul…I have not seen you in more than three years, and you come bearing such an outrageous story."

"I wish it were no more than a story, Christine," he snapped irritably. "Do you think that I _want _to claim that...that..._creature_...as my blood?"

Christine stood swiftly in anger; his cruel words cut her deeply, though she would not allow him to see. She was thankful that her equilibrium did not revolt at her sudden movement. "If the thought is so repulsive to you, then why pursue this insane notion?"

"I have no choice, Christine," he said with hands spread in helpless frustration. "I must know the truth…and God help me, if this man is my brother, I must attempt to make amends for the great wrong that my family has committed."

_Dear Raoul, _she thought with some little bitterness, _ever the noble knight determined to fight for justice_.

She could sense no treachery in him, yet her entire body was coiled defensively around the secret that she guarded. That Raoul had sought her out in the hope of finding Erik made her situation precarious at best. He had undoubtedly been hoping that the former Phantom had somehow learned of her growing fame, and having once again sought out the object of his obsession, was even now lingering in the shadows of the theater. Raoul could never know how very close to the truth his notion had been. She would not betray her angel again.

"How can this even be true, Raoul?" she desperately questioned "To have a brother that you never even knew of."

An incredulous look passed over his features. "Need you ask? You have _seen_ his unmasked face."

"That is no excuse for a innocent child to be denied," she cried, once again pressing a protective hand over the rings that remained hidden beneath her dressing gown.

Raoul stood contemplating her outburst for a moment before quietly responding, "I am inclined to agree, but you did not know my father, Christine."

A sudden memory of the portrait that hung in the library of the Chateau de Chagny appeared before her eyes, and she sank back down upon the divan in shock. She had once spent long hours gazing at that image during her engagement to Raoul, and it had never failed to remind her of Erik. At the time, she had thought it merely her own melancholy and guilt transforming the old Comte's arrogant features into those of her angel, but now she wondered how she could have failed to notice the resemblance. And Philippe de Chagny, with his dark looks and the familiar curve of his lip….there had always been something in his appearance that had made her uneasy, and now she wondered if she had unconsciously been comparing his disdainful sneer to that of the Phantom.

She was visibly trembling from the force of these revelations, and Raoul knelt beside her in concern. "Christine, are you unwell? Shall I fetch the manager?"

"No," she managed to whisper. "Please Raoul, tell me everything."

He hesitated, looking at her queerly, and Christine wondered what he must think, seeing her interest so clearly invested in learning of Erik's past. Without comment, Raoul straightened and paced over to the chair by her vanity where he settled himself with a sigh.

"Philippe kept a journal, as I have told you. Much of it was filled with boastful tales of his..._conquests, _but ten years ago, he recounted in writing the deathbed confession of our father..."

xXx

_Journal of Philippe, Comte de Chagny_  
___1865, 17 September_

_  
The Comte de Chagny is dead - long live the Comte de Chagny._

_I should feel remorse at the passing of my own dear father, but the man has never endeared himself to anyone - least of all his own children. Raoul, of course, is devastated, but he is a tender hearted little fellow and young enough yet to have never tasted the wrath of Michel, Comte de Chagny. No doubt, in a few years he would have felt the onerous weight of the Comte's expectations upon his youthful shoulders. It was to have been the navy for little Raoul. The poor boy may enlist yet, just to honor the old man's memory._

_Élise will not be so inclined. I believe that our dear sister is secretly celebrating her freedom from father's demands that she marry the sniveling fool that he had intended for her. She will now be able to enjoy a few more years of flirting with every eligible young man before settling on someone suitable._

_As for myself, I am left with the title that I so coveted and the burden of my father's deathbed confession, the truth of which I can scarcely believe. Why he thought me a better choice for his last words than a priest I cannot fathom. I suspect that even until the very end he would not allow the De Chagny name to be tainted._

_The old man called me to his bedside after the priest had gone and began to speak to me of my mother. I was astounded. In the more than twenty years since she passed, he had scarcely uttered two consecutive words about her. I had been so very young when she died that my only knowledge of her had been the small portrait that I found in a drawer and my aunt's tales of her beauty and talent. _

_Régine de Chagny had possessed a deep love of music, and according to Aunt Anne-Marie, she had the voice of an angel, though she only sang for those closest to her. My aunt assured me that my mother sang to me often as a child, and she had been the one to spark my father's appreciation of the arts. _

_I, myself, first took an interest in the opera solely in an attempt to become closer to my mother's memory, but it was my discovery of the fetching little ballerinas that has taken me back again and again. And Sorelli, of course. _

_My Giuliana made such a fine mistress - the way she would contort her body was enough to leave a man begging. I wonder how she is now, and that child that she claims is mine._

_Unclaimed children seem something of a De Chagny trait, it would seem. My mother, God rest her soul, died in childbirth when I was but five. I can remember her troubled confinement and the curious awe that overcame me at watching her grow heavy with child. She would often place my little hand upon her rounded belly to feel the ripples of life beneath. After her death, I confess that I quickly developed a keen abhorrence for women in such a delicate condition._

_I believed, as had everyone else, that the child she had borne - a son - died with her on that horrible night. Erik Michel de Chagny is the name upon the tiny memorial half buried by weeds next to my mother's grave - and the last words that she spoke upon this earth._

_It appears that my father has deceived the lot of us. He told me with tears in his eyes that the child did not die that night, but came screaming into the world even as it ripped the life from my mother. She was said to have smiled at the babe as she whispered his name - joining her own family surname with that of her beloved husband. If only she had known! She was, by all accounts, blind to the twisted features of my brother's tiny face, bearing a deformity so severe that the devil himself must have cursed the babe in her womb. Or so my father claimed._

_He was a proud man - and a jealous one. Upon seeing the child, he had been immediately convinced that his adored wife must have been unfaithful and that the babe could not be his. Of course, my poor mother was unable to defend herself, and half mad with grief, the illustrious Comte demanded that the child be taken from his sight. Such a creature could never be recognized as a De Chagny._

_Apparently, with enough money and power, doctors can be quite easily convinced to falsify birth and death records. I shall have to take note of this for the future.._

_The child was then given to one of my mother's maids - a mercenary woman who apparently bled my father of quite a handsome sum of money to keep the child locked up and hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. He said her name was Madeline, though I do not recall the surname. She is dead now by his account, so it matters little. _

_This was all shocking enough for me to hear, but my father had yet more to confess. Despite the horrid deformity, my brother survived for more than eight years in that woman's custody before she somehow managed to lose him. No, the boy did not die. He escaped from her care and disappeared without a trace. I can only imagine how my father must have taken the news. I almost pity the woman - and I wonder if her death was a natural one._

_Years later, whilst my father was living in Paris with his second wife and infant daughter - Raoul was still only a light of hope in their eyes - there was a story in the _Époque _about a freak from the traveling gypsy carnival who had murdered his keeper and fled into the night. The paper called him the Devil's Child. My father laughed weakly at this, telling me that must make __him__ the devil. He believed it was the same boy - his long lost son. Apparently, he had come to believe that he was, in fact, the child's father._

_'His eyes,__' _my father said. 

_The old man then claimed to have made a half-hearted attempt to locate the boy in Paris, thinking that perhaps he might hide his unfortunate son away in some nice little house with a more responsible custodian, but he was unable find the child._

_My father begged for forgiveness with his last breaths, whether from God, or me, or that poor child that he had so cruelly cast away into the world, I will never know._

_He died with a smile upon his face at having finally made his confession._

_Now I wonder what I am meant to do with such an unbelievable story. Am I to seek out this missing heir? Or ignore his existence as my father had for so many years? He will be a man grown now, if he still lives. Who can know what such a creature might have become?_

_I cannot help but wonder some at the stories that Sorelli used to tell me as we lay spent in her bed after our assignations - stories of a ghost living at the opera house where she danced. She was always a superstitious girl to be sure, but she spoke of a phantom with only half a face._

_Only a story, I pray. For God help us all if this phantom should be our missing brother. _

* * *

**A/N: **Erik's origins will have further exploration in later chapters.

Thank you for all of your feedback, and I hope that you will continue to let me know how I am faring with the story.


	11. Who Deserves This

**Who Deserves This**

Raoul de Chagny had come to Venice for the sole purpose of seeking out Christine Daaé, and instead he had found a diva whom he barely even recognized. He had expected her to resist his mission, of course, for even in those horrible days in Paris, she had denied his every attempt to sway her completely from her so-called _angel_. Contrary to what many of his peers believed, he was not a fool. He had long ago understood the power that the Phantom held over Christine, and it had only taken him a little longer to understand that _she _had the same power over _him_.

The knowledge that the man could be his brother had sent his world spinning. Philippe's death had been difficult enough to bear, but the discovery of those damned journals had left Raoul devastated. He had read over the earliest entries with a sense of melancholy, thinking them his brother's only legacy, but as the writings continued, Raoul had learned all of the horrifying secrets that his family had kept.

Philippe had lied to him…lies of omission and outright deception. The older man had _never_ confessed what he had learned from their father, not even when Raoul had told him every sordid detail of what had transpired in Paris between himself, Christine and the Phantom.

Upon first hearing the tale, the Comte de Chagny had stood stunned for a long moment, shaken his head in disbelief, and proceeded to verbally browbeat his baby brother for being so foolish. Philippe had known then, the _bastard_, and had not said a word….never told Raoul that they had a murderer for a brother, nor that he had nearly killed, and been killed by, his own flesh and blood.

Utter disbelief had come first, and then the insistent denial, but a nagging sense of truth would not allow Raoul to find peace, and he had returned to the journals again and again, pouring over every speculation that his brother had ever made. Not one to upset the status quo, or risk his life of leisure, Philippe had not made any great effort to seek out the Erik that their father had spoken of, nor had he ever pursued any suspicions as to the existence of the rumored Phantom of the Opera Populáire. Although he certainly had been opposed to Raoul becoming the new patron of the opera house when it changed ownership, and the reason for that was now very clear.

Philippe's entries after the scandal in Paris had made some mention of his subtle inquiries as to the fate of the Opera Ghost, but if he discovered anything useful in locating the man, he had not detailed them in writing.

Faced with the mounting evidence recorded by his brother's hand, Raoul's denial had been swiftly replaced by anger…at his father...at Philippe...at the Phantom. Then he had felt guilty over his rage at two dead men and one so pitiable that he may as well have been dead. The guilt had been the thing to drive him.

He had considered telling everything to his sister, Élise…needing someone in which he could confide…someone with whom to share his utter confusion and despair, but he had dared not trust her with such a monumental revelation. She had married a rich, untitled barrister the year before, and the man had greatly softened her haughty ideals, yet she had always displayed little sympathy for anything to do with Raoul's experiences in Paris. He was afraid of how she might react to the discovery of another brother…and the Phantom, at that. Perhaps she would take pity upon poor Erik, but more than likely not.

Instead of Élise, Raoul had approached his aunt, the Baroness d'Amboise, and told her the tale. The older woman had broken down in tears, muttering curses upon her late brother for his careless actions. She had known nothing of Michel's deception, but she had confirmed the description of the child's deformity, having been told of it in detail by the grieving Comte. Her sympathy for her poor lost nephew was unmistakable, and she refused to allow such a miscarriage of justice to continue. Despite all that Raoul had told her about the Phantom, she had adamantly insisted that the man must be found and brought to Paris so that she may meet with him and relay the truth of his parentage.

Christine had once asked Raoul how he could feel no compassion for the Phantom, when the pathetic man had known nothing else of life save darkness and rejection. At the time, Raoul had shrugged off her question, irritated that she could so easily forgive all that the monster had done. Now years removed from the heat of the battle, and after discovering his own father's long ago deception, pity came in waves. If the Phantom was indeed his brother, then Michel de Chagny had been the cause of it all, and it fell to Raoul to somehow set right the wrongs that his family had committed.

Left with nowhere else to begin his quest for the truth, Raoul had found himself once again seeking out Madame Antoinette Giry. The woman had apparently come into some wealth since her time at the opera, and she had retired into a nice little cottage in a quiet area of the city. She had been understandably surprised to see him, and predictably impossible to glean any new information from. Her daughter, however, had been much more cooperative.

xXx

_One Month Earlier…_

Meg Giry arrived home to the unexpected sight of the Vicomte de Chagny being unceremoniously ejected by her irate mother, and the three all but collided in the doorway.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," she muttered breathlessly, offering a polite and graceful little curtsy.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle," he apologized.

"Out, m'sieur! Now," demanded Madame. "Come inside at once, Meg."

"Oui, maman," she said obediently, but smiled shyly at Raoul before the door slammed shut.

The short meeting had been enough to spark a new plan of attack. It had been simple enough to determine where the girl spent her days, the Paris Ballet, and the De Chagny name had enough clout to earn Raoul admission into the company's rehearsal. He could not say that watching the practice had been a chore, and he wondered sourly if perhaps he had more of his brother (Philippe, not Erik) in him than he had once believed to find such pleasure in watching all the pretty girls dance.

Meg Giry had grown into a beautiful young woman, and he well remembered her display of courage on the night of the fire, although he had been distracted at the time. He felt remorse for what he meant to do, but he could see no other way. Madame Giry would not reveal the information that he required, and he could only hope that her daughter might be more cooperative.

The young woman had been shocked to see Raoul appear before her when the rehearsal had ended, and she blushed furiously at the abbreviated state of her dress. Awkward greetings were exchanged, and Raoul was able to issue her an invitation to lunch, which she accepted, though clearly with reserve.

"Maman would not approve, m'sieur," she insisted.

"Please, you must call me Raoul…and I only wish to know how Christine's dearest friend has fared these last three years."

The mention of Christine seemed to relax her some, and Raoul noted, with some little irritation, the look of sympathy that filled her dark eyes. It had been _three years _after all, but he was unwilling to allow her to refuse him, and so he found himself using her pity to his advantage.

Their lunch was filled with some surprisingly pleasant conversation, as Meg was a lively and tender hearted young woman with unexpected intelligence. He felt shame at deceiving her, but it could not be helped.

"Tell me, Meg," he said smoothly, or so he had thought, "have you kept in contact with Christine?"

She eyed him cautiously for a moment before carefully answering, "We have written to one another, though admittedly not as often as we should. And you?"

He shrugged and admitted sadly, "It was not her wish, but I did have the pleasure of seeing her perform once in Venice."

"Really? I imagine that she had the audience on their feet," she said with a wistful smile. "One day I hope to be able to visit her."

Casually, he inquired, "Has she never been back to Paris?"

"No," Meg answered a little forlornly.

"I imagine that there are too many painful memories for her here."

"Yes," she agreed with a knowing look, undoubtedly believing his own memories of Paris to be mostly unpleasant ones.

"She would not wish to return to a place that may yet be unsafe for her," he probed. If the Phantom…_Erik_, _damn it_…remained here in the city, perhaps Meg would let it slip in concern for her friend. Raoul would not be so lucky, of course.

Meg Giry primly set her fork down upon the table and straightened haughtily in her seat, and just in that moment, she adorned her mother's cool persona. "What information are you seeking, m'sieur?"

Raoul felt his face flame with embarrassment as he covered, "I am only making conversation."

"My mother informed me that you were asking her all about the Phantom once again, and now you have turned our conversation to him, as well. What can you hope to learn that you do not already know?"

He laughed derisively at that and sharply reminded her, "I know next to nothing."

With an elegantly arched brow, she threw back, "Why do you believe that I would know any more than you?"

"You are an intelligent and observant young woman," he said earnestly, "and your mother knows far more than she has ever admitted."

"And you believe that a handsome face and a few sweet words will sway me into betraying my mother's secrets," she accused indignantly. "You have _met _my mother, no?"

Raoul sagged in his chair, braced his elbows inelegantly against the table and ran an irritated hand through his newly shorn hair. "I need only a name, Meg. That is all I ask."

"A name?"

"Yes," he insisted. "He was a man after all. He must have been called something other than O.G. or the Phantom."

Meg regarded him warily, "Why would you wish to know his name?"

"I cannot tell you that, but please believe that I have a reason," he implored, "a matter of family honor that must be seen to. I mean to cause no trouble. Not for your mother, nor Christine, nor even for _him_."

She observed him for long moments, and he felt as though he was falling short in her eyes, until she sighed, "My mother has only ever called him Erik."

Raoul froze at the name, and ice seeped though his veins at the confirmation of his worst nightmare. His fingers shook violently as he reached for his glass and took a deep gulp of the wine...suddenly bitter upon his tongue. Meg looked at him worriedly and reached across the table to grasp his trembling hand.

"Raoul, are you ill?"

"No," he choked, and then cleared his throat and determinedly calmed himself. "No, Meg," he said again, glad to hear his voice return, "I am well. Thank you. Your honesty has helped me more than you can know."

"But how? It is only a name," she muttered in bewilderment.

"No. It is far more than that," he assured her. Then he turned his hand under hers and brought her fingers to his lips. She blushed quite prettily at his action, to his utter delight, though he did not take the time to examine the response. "I do not suppose that I could persuade you to reveal if…Erik…has remained in contact with…anyone?"

She shook her head in refusal and reclaimed her hand from his. "No. I am afraid that I could not reveal that information even were I aware of it," she said with finality.

"I see," he sighed. "Still, you have been most helpful, little Meg."

Meg averted her eyes to the table, perhaps upset with herself for aiding him, yet her cheeks colored to an even deeper rose and he could not hope to conceal his answering smile. If she would tell him no more, he knew of only one person who might.

xXx

_Present…_

Raoul stood outside Christine's dressing room contemplating Meg Giry's words. _Only a name_, indeed. Her single concession to his inept interview had been more than enough to irrevocably shake him from his peaceful existence. He had determinedly pushed his memories of Christine and all that had happened in Paris to the outermost corners of his mind, but the secrets unearthed by Philippe's death had brought everything rushing back to the surface. Despite his better judgment, Raoul had not been able to ignore his responsibilities and had been left with no other choice but to seek out Christine in the hope that she would reveal some detail that might lead him to Erik.

The door had been slammed shut in his face…literally. He had revealed everything to her, just as she had asked, only to have her call her manager to eject him from the room. Well, in all fairness, what she had said, moments after turning completely ashen and swaying precariously upon the divan, was, _"I am feeling most unwell after all, Raoul. Please go and fetch Signor Dellano."_

He had done just that, and been barred from her presence. No, Raoul was not a fool. Christine's reaction had been that of a woman who knew far more than she was admitting, and he would lay odds that that his _dear brother _was somewhere in Venice.

As he leaned against the wall, turning the De Chagny signet around his finger, an attractive young blond approached him unbidden. "Scusi, signor," she said with a flirtatious little grin "Did I see you come out of La Daaé's dressing room?"

Raoul sighed, "Yes."

"Dio," she muttered under her breath, "she goes from seeing _no one _to entertaining mysterious suitors left and right!"

He chuckled at the girl's irate little rant, obviously spurred by jealousy, and then realized the implication of her words…and the potential. "I am merely an old friend of hers from Paris," he said obligingly.

"Mmm," she hummed as she studied him with a come hither look. "I like Frenchmen, signor, and I think that you are much more handsome than the other one."

Raoul froze. "The other one…do you mean…Erik?"

"Sí …you know Signor Villon also?"

He laughed, "Signor Villon. Erik Villon." The name sounded familiar for some reason. Raoul gave the girl a dazzling smile. "Yes, Erik and I are _very well_ acquainted," he said, offering his arm, which the little ballerina eagerly accepted.

This girl could prove very useful indeed.

* * *

**A/N: **A Raoul-centric chapter which sheds a little more light on what brought him to Venice and to his belief that Erik is his brother. He does have a stubborn sense of honor, although his means of upholding that honor are not always above reproach. 

Next chapter…Erik returns.

Feedback is welcome, and thank you for reading.


	12. Talking In Riddles

**Talking In Riddles **

Villa della Rosa was situated on the Grand Canal within an easy distance of _Teatro_ _la Fenice_. The townhouse emerged imposingly from the waterline and hid a charming little rose garden at its rear. The interior décor was a harmonious blend of both the masculine personality and feminine sensibility of its owners, and the walls in the foyer were painted with a calming fresco of an Italian vineyard, opening under arches that stood as gateways to rest of the house.

Erik had purchased the spacious home for Christine shortly after their marriage, insisting that while the cozy little flat that she had rented at the Villa la Fenice may have be comfortable for one, it would never do for the both of them.

The three of them, if one counted Nadir Kahn, which one must, as the Persian had been promptly relocated to Venice at Erik's insistence. True that the man often came and went as he pleased, but Erik felt far better knowing his trusted friend's primary residence was nearby, especially in light of his own unavoidable absences from Christine.

In fact, since their wedding three months before, the couple had spent more time apart than together. Their honeymoon had lasted little more than a week before Christine had needed to return to Venice for rehearsals. Erik had been reluctant to part with her, so they had made the journey together and spent another week holed up in her flat before he had needed to return to Milan. Since then, he had taken every chance to be in Venice with his wife, and he was, quite frankly, exhausted from the constant travel.

It was in just such a state that Erik returned on the morning after the premiere of _Aida_. He had rushed through his business in Milan with excessive haste, wishing only to return in time to see his angel perform, but he had been detained by problem after problem. He had been mildly disappointed not to see Christine rush from the villa to greet him on the walkway, and considerably irritated at finding her missing as he entered the foyer. Even more so when, instead of her lovely smiling face, he was met with a dour Nadir.

Carelessly, he tossed his hat and gloves atop the table. "Daroga, where is Christine?"

One bushy brow arched sardonically. "Greetings to you, too, my friend. How was your journey?"

"Nadir," Erik growled impatiently, "where…is…my…wife?"

The Persian averted his gaze toward the staircase. "Still abed, I suspect."

Erik felt a prickle of concern begin to tingle down the back of his neck. "At this hour?"

Nadir rocked on his heels, looking for a moment as though he were about to make some ghastly confession, but instead he only shrugged. "She returned home very late last evening, and looked most unwell when she arrived."

"Unwell?" Erik questioned worriedly. "Did you send for a doctor?"

"She would not allow it." At Erik's darkening countenance, Nadir clarified, "She insisted that she was not ill, only upset…a bad performance, she claimed."

Erik's black clad shoulders sagged, and he adjusted his mask in irritation as he began to pace. "Damn it to hell! I knew that I should not have left when I did…she was worried about the role…fearing that her voice was not strong enough."

Nadir frowned. "From where I sat, her performance was perfection, as is usual for our diva."

Erik stopped his agitated fidgeting and spun back to Nadir with a glare of annoyance. "You attended?"

"Do not look so shocked, Erik. I do on occasion enjoy the opera," he reminded his friend, "and I thought it unlikely that you would return in time to enjoy the box that she rented for you."

"Damn you, Daroga," Erik shouted. "If you were in attendance then why did you not stay and see to Christine?"

"Because she did not ask me to," defended the Persian. "She is a grown woman, my friend. She may tolerate my presence here in your absence, but I suspect that she does not wish me to shadow her every move."

"_I _wish it!" Erik stood before his so-called friend in a rage. What good was the man being in Venice if he was not protecting Christine?

"_Your _temper I can handle," Nadir said with confidence, "but some of the tantrums that I have seen that woman produce are truly frightening."

Erik stared at Nadir in astonished silence. "This is beyond belief," he muttered. "You _cannot _be intimidated by _Christine!_"

Nadir crossed his arms and tilted his head in that annoyingly knowing way of his. "I have seen you bow to her a time or two, now."

"You are useless, Daroga," Erik sputtered as he spun on his heel and marched toward the stairs to find his wife.

xXx

Christine was _not_ still abed when he reached the master suite, but was sitting at her vanity staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror. Dark circles marred the skin beneath her reddened eyes, and she looked to be utterly exhausted. Erik felt his heart lurch at the sight before him.

_Damn Nadir for not seeing to her properly!_

He exhaled shakily, and the sound drew her attention. Her deep brown eyes met his in the glass, but instead of the smile that he had come to expect of her, tears began to spill over her pale cheeks.

"Christine?"

She turned and flung herself from the chair, racing into his arms and hugging him so tightly that he could scarcely breathe. His arms came around her reflexively, and he felt the sharp nails of dread begin to claw at him. He could not recall having witnessed her in such a state since…well…since Paris. This was no bad performance. Something was terribly wrong with his wife.

"Christine," he demanded, "what has happened? Are you unwell?"

"No," she whispered raggedly against his chest, "I am perfectly well." An inaudible sob shook her body and, inconceivably, her arms tightened further around his neck as she cried, "I have missed you so, Erik."

"And I have missed you, mon ange," he soothed uneasily, alarm for her still bubbling through him as he rubbed gentle circles across her back, "but I have not been away for so very long."

"It seems a lifetime," she rasped.

Nearly at the end of his patience, Erik pried her arms away from him and tilted her chin up, trying to rein in his fear and growing temper. "Come now, Christine. What is this all about? Nadir tells me that you were upset last evening."

Her dark eyes grew shuttered, and she forced her mouth into an apologetic smile as she wiped at her tears. "I am only being foolish, Erik," she said with a rueful shake of her head, "sulking because you missed my performance."

He observed her carefully, not believing her for a moment, of course, but unwilling to upset her further. Instead of accusations, he offered an apology. "It could not be helped. Forgive me."

Her smile became sincere then, and she lovingly cupped his face in her hand. "Always, my love." She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, but quickly pulled away to gaze at him with some unnamed emotion flickering in her eyes. He wanted to demand that she tell him what was dancing about in that pretty little head of hers, but Christine slipped into the nearly perfected persona of La Daaé, sliding out of his arms and casually asking, "How are matters in Milan? I hope that Sophia and Franco are both well…and the children."

Erik instantly recognized her attempt to evade the subject of her unusual mood, but he decided to play along for the moment while his mind reasoned through nearly every conceivable cause for her distress. "They are. Sophia cooked, Franco quoted, and the children demanded magic tricks. Life has fully returned to normal in their household."

Christine nodded distractedly, murmuring, "I am glad to hear it. And your business?"

"Problematic," he sighed. "Roberto has a talent for design, but not for management, although it seems that Isabella has a surprisingly good head for business."

Christine raised a skeptical brow. "Amongst other things, I am certain," she muttered.

Erik found himself grinning slightly at the flash of annoyance in his wife's eyes. At any other time, he might have indulged himself with a little teasing over Christine's persistent distrust of Isabella Rivadi, but not today.

He brushed a stray curl over her shoulder. "I am pleased to report, however, that my last project in Milan has finally been concluded. You will no longer be required to part with your husband quite so often."

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, genuine happiness glittering in her dark eyes, "that is wonderful news."

"Yes, I thought that you would approve." He submitted to her appreciative kiss before gently pulling away to look into her eyes. "Now, my dear, perhaps you will tell me what is really bothering you."

Christine turned her face away, mumbling, "Nothing that need concern you, Erik."

"Christine," he growled irritably as he cupped her jaw in his hand and turned her face back to his. "You are, no doubt, a very talented actress, but you have yet to master the skill of deceiving me." He felt her flinch in his arms, and he forced himself to use a calmer tone as he said, "I come home to find you crying and acting strangely, and you expect that I will not question you?"

Her eyes fell closed for a moment and she nodded very slightly before she sighed in resignation. "I was told some very unfortunate news last evening…the brother of a friend has recently passed away." She met his eyes evenly, and he could detect no deception in them. "We spoke of it for quite some time and I found that the conversation affected me rather strongly." She offered him that endearingly crooked smile of hers, and raised a hand to caress his cheek. "And I had no Erik to hold me when I returned home."

He caught her hand in his and pressed it to his lips, feeling suddenly guilty for causing her such further upset. "I am here now, mon ange," he said remorsefully. "My arms are yours for the asking."

She stepped into them without hesitation and kissed him with such sweet longing that all of his doubts fled in a heartbeat. He was so very happy to be home.

xXx

As Erik exhaustedly collapsed into their bed nearly fully clothed to rest his eyes...for just a moment, he had vowed...Christine drew the curtains and turned to see her husband already snoring softly. She smiled despite her inner turmoil and quietly crept over to gently remove his mask and place it on the bedside table. Lovingly brushing his hair back from his forehead, she bent and placed a soft kiss to his brow before leaving him to his well deserved rest.

He had traveled through the night to return to her, and she had greeted him with deception. God forgive her, but telling Erik what had taken place in his absence was all but impossible. She mechanically made her way down to the dining room, thankful that Darius had left the teapot and some toasted bread for her. She had just lifted the pot to pour herself a cup when Nadir's irritated voice jolted her.

"I take it by the blessed silence that you have not told him."

She turned to see the Persian's scowling face and accusatory posture filling the doorway. Carefully setting down the teapot and cup with trembling hands, she stammered, "Pardon me?"

"No," he refused scathingly, "I do _not_ pardon you. Erik is not one to play such games with."

Her breathing grew shallow as she looked into his flashing dark eyes. "I don't understand…"

"Do not lie to me," he cut her off. "I heard the Vicomte de Chagny beg your manager for a private audience with you last evening, and I watched him disappear into your dressing room."

Christine knew better than to deny it. Nadir Kahn was as adept as her husband at remaining hidden in the shadows. Strange that he would wait until this morning to accuse her of treachery when he could have done so last night without fear of Erik overhearing them.

"You have not told Erik," she said simply.

"No, I have not, as evidenced by his lack of murderous rage upon greeting you," he said irritably as he began to pace in front of her, "but you have placed me into a very difficult position and I am most uncomfortable. I have chosen to trust that you did not invite that young man back into your life, but were merely being courteous."

"I was as surprised to see him as you, Nadir," she swore. "I promise you."

The Persian had been slow to trust her, but he had overcome his initial wariness to accept her into Erik's life with the hope that she would make his friend happy. They had finally come to an understanding, and now she had ruined it all. No, Raoul had ruined it…she was no more than a helpless pawn, just as she had always been.

Nadir ran a frustrated hand though his black curls. "In that case, I would advise you to tell Erik everything, as I can assure you that he will not take well to discovering such information on his own."

"I cannot tell him, Nadir," she cried. "Oh, I wish that I had never met Raoul de Chagny! He has brought nothing but complications into my life, and I cannot take anymore! Erik is complicated enough as he is, without," she broke off, turning her back to him and shaking her head in dismay. She could not even bear to say it. "Oh, Nadir. I am trying to protect him, you must believe me."

Nadir placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. "Calm yourself, little one," he soothed. "I do believe you, but perhaps you should tell me what the Vicomte wanted with you."

"Yes, Christine," came the thundering voice of her husband. "Please do tell! What did _your boy _want?"

* * *

**A/N: **And so the fun begins. Poor Christine made the wrong choice…Nadir's disappointment in her will be nothing next to Erik's anger. Even though he has come a very long way…Raoul de Chagny cannot fail to awaken those demons of his. 

Thank you all for continuing on this journey with me.

I appreciate all of your feedback.


	13. You Deceived Me

**You Deceived Me**

"What did _your boy _want?"

Erik stood ominously in the doorway, seething with rage and waiting for an answer from his _beloved wife_. His _sweet, innocent angel _who had stood before him not thirty minutes before swearing that all was well and that he need not be concerned over whatever had troubled her. Now she stood trembling with wide, tear-filled eyes.

"Erik," she whispered.

"What did he want, Christine?" Erik asked again in a deceptively mild tone as he stalked toward his wife. She took an defensive step back, and the unconscious action wounded him deeply. He wanted to howl in agony as remembered visions of Christine in the Vicomte's arms taunted him.

Nadir reached out to press a restraining hand to his shoulder. "Erik, you must calm yourself."

He easily shrugged off his friend's inept hold and ignored the warning, again growling, "What did the _boy_ want, Christine?"

"Erik, please," she sobbed. She protectively wrapped her arms around herself and silently pleaded with glistening dark eyes for some incomprehensible assistance that Erik simply could not provide.

"Please _what_, Christine?" he asked in a menacing tone. "Please forgive your deception?" He continued forward until he had backed her against the far wall with ease. "You lying little wretch," he cursed, looming dangerously over her as she dissolved into a weeping mess before him.

Nadir shouted, "Erik, that is enough," as he attempted to wrench Erik away from his wife. "She does not deserve such censure."

He spun to face the Persian, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him violently into the wall beside Christine. Ignoring his wife's startled cry, he accused, "You defend her, Daroga? Has she seduced you as well?"

The man did not flinch from Erik's rage nor struggle against it, but his eyes narrowed in warning. "Erik, you are a jealous fool. Now let me go and listen to reason."

Erik's grip tightened for a moment before he released Nadir with no gentleness. He fisted his hands at his side to avoid curling them around the Persian's throat. Or hers, God help him.

"Very well," he turned to Christine with a sneer. "I await the _reason _for your lies, my dear."

"I…oh, Erik, please," she begged him again, struggling to speak through the generous flow of her meaningless tears. Erik felt curiously cold at her pathetic display, and the jagged blade of ice that had been forming near his heart pierced him thoroughly when she stammered, "I cannot…you must understand."

He lurched forward in a swift motion and pinned her to the wall between his taut arms. "I understand perfectly, Christine," he spat as he watched her recoil in fright. "Your handsome young lover has returned for you at last!"

"No!"

"Erik," Nadir cautioned lowly.

He ignored both of their useless pleas, already hopelessly lost to the fiery red haze that colored his perception. "I believed your treachery," he threw at Christine, "drank in every deceitful endearment that you have uttered like a man dying of thirst." He was careful not to touch her, but she flinched at his every word as though each was a physical blow. "I should have killed that foolish boy when I had the chance!"

Christine gasped in horror, "No, you mustn't say that, please…"

"You beg for his life _again_," he accused incredulously, even as his heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. "Your faithfulness is admirable, my dear," sarcasm dripped from his words, "such a shame it is for _him_ and not for your _husband_."

"No, no," she repeated brokenly, slowly sliding down the wall while great, gasping sobs wracked her delicate shoulders.

Nadir roughly pushed Erik out of the way and knelt beside Christine, glaring up from his defensive post. "You truly are a bastard, Erik. May _Allah_ forgive you."

A wretched laugh bubbled up from the depths of his tattered soul. "Your _Allah _and her _God_ both damned me long ago. I am past asking forgiveness of _them_."

Unable to endure her presence one moment longer, Erik spun away and tore out of the room…out of the villa…he wanted nothing more than to be out of the damned city…the country! As far away from Christine Daaé as he could get. She had defended that _damned boy _again! Lied to protect him! Intentionally covered up her dirty tryst with the man who had taken her from him once before.

_She is __**my **wife_, he silently screamed. _Mine!_

All that she had needed to say was that the boy meant nothing to her. That she had not invited him to Venice. That she had sent him on his way with a friendly adieu. He would have believed her. He would have _forgiven_ her.

_She deceived me, betrayed me again. With that damnable boy._

_That boy who is in Venice_, whispered the long silent voice of the Phantom_. He is here. Somewhere in the city. He has come for Christine, but he will not have her. No one will __**ever**__ have her but me. _

_She is mine._

_The Vicomte de Chagny will **never** see Christine again._

_I will kill him. _

xXx

"Why could you not just tell him the truth, little one?"

Nadir shook his head in frustration as he offered Christine his handkerchief. She was still sprawled inelegantly upon the floor where Erik had left her, leaning heavily against the wall and gulping in deep, agonizing breaths as she struggled to calm her despondent sobs. Looking up at him with wide, wounded eyes, she wept, "I hardly know what the truth is anymore."

His gaze sharpened upon her, and he asked her indelicately, "Was Erik correct in his accusations?"

"No!"

The look of abject horror upon her tear-streaked face was almost enough to convince Nadir of her innocence. "Then why invite his temper rather than confess your meeting with the Vicomte?"

She helplessly shook her head, whispering, "I did not know…how…to tell him."

Nadir hissed out an irritated breath, thinking that the blasted woman could be as stubborn and intractable as Erik. He had been slow to trust Christine's reappearance in his friend's life for fear of just such a scene playing out, yet he could not bring himself now to believe her capable of deliberately betraying her husband. He had observed her quite closely in the past months and he could find no trace of artifice in her. She had accepted Erik with full knowledge of his many demons, and the love that she felt for him was evident in her every action. That was the only reason that Nadir had chosen not to question her about Raoul de Chagny the night before. He had trusted her to tell Erik the truth on her own. She had disappointed him, to be certain, but he had believed her when she had claimed to be protecting Erik, though he could not fathom _what_ she could _possibly_ think to be protecting him from.

He gently took her elbow and helped her to stand, steadying her as she momentarily leaned against him to claim her balance. "You had best think of a way to make this right. When Erik returns," _if Erik returns_, he thought, "your woeful excuses will not satisfy him."

Christine's eyes grew suddenly panicked, and she clutched desperately at Nadir's coat sleeves . "Oh, Nadir…you must go after him…please…you must bring him back here now," she begged, growing more hysterical by the moment, "God only knows what he will do! You must stop him! Oh…he has come so far, Nadir, you mustn't let him do anything foolish. I beg of you!"

In truth, the Persian's thoughts were running along much the same line. As much as he wanted to demand that Christine confess everything to him, he feared that leaving Erik alone to stalk the streets of Venice for too long in his present temper could be very dangerous indeed. Especially with the Vicomte de Chagny likely still somewhere in the city. Thank _Allah _that his friend had no way to locate the boy…at least not quickly. Or so he prayed.

"I will do my best, Christine," he solemnly promised her.

He only hoped that his best would be enough.

xXx

_He will never forgive me, _Christine thought hopelessly nearly an hour later.

She sat in the parlor staring blindly out the bay window over the Grand Canal, unconsciously twisting her handkerchief between worried fingers as she waited and prayed for Nadir to return with her husband. Even if the Persian could find Erik and bring him safely home, she knew that she could never begin to properly explain her actions. She had betrayed him, though not in the way that he believed, and she had no excuse for her deception. What she had learned the night before had devastated her, and she had known immediately that Erik would never accept the truth of Raoul de Chagny's claim. She had replayed the outrageous tale over and over in her mind, and she could not ignore her near certainty that Erik Villon and Erik Michel de Chagny were one and the same.

How could she be expected to find adequate words to tell Erik that his entire miserable childhood had been based upon a lie, and instigated by the Comte de Chagny? Or that the man whom he hated most in this world was his own flesh and blood? Christine had failed utterly in her duty to her husband, foolishly thinking herself protecting him when all she had really done was hide her head in the sand and pray that Raoul would simply go away. Perhaps _Little Lotte _was still alive and well despite Christine's best efforts to bury her.

_There can be no more of this childish behavior, _she silently vowed. _Erik needs his wife, La Daaé, not that lost little girl from Paris. _

_And I need him._

She was terrified of what Erik might do in his anger. For the first time since Paris, Christine had fully witnessed the remnants of the Phantom flash in his eyes as he had turned his rage upon her. His outburst in front of Isabella Rivaldi those many months ago in Milan had been insignificant in comparison. She believed deep in her soul that he would never have physically harmed her, but she could not say the same for Raoul.

There would be no forgiveness to be had for any of them if Erik were to murder his own brother.

_Oh, Nadir, please find him quickly and bring him back to me._

xXx

He had returned for her.

_The Phantom. _

Raoul de Chagny really should not have been so surprised by the discovery. He had, after all, sought out Christine with the hope that just such an event had occurred, but the confirmation of his suspicions left a bitter taste in his mouth. Some small part of him had held fast to the wish that he would be wrong…that Christine would not be foolish enough to welcome back into her life the man who had committed such heinous crimes in Paris. Yet she had done that very thing, and with open arms. At least according to Vittoria, the little ballerina who had been so accommodating to him last evening.

Indeed, Raoul had found it most difficult to _stop_ the girl from relaying the sordid details of La Daaé's affairs, and gushing about the mysterious masked man who had lately been seen haunting the theater…how appropriate a description…and slipping not so discreetly into the diva's dressing room.

Erik Villon, the master architect from Milan, had appeared in Venice half a year prior and attached himself immediately to Christine, who had eagerly…well, Vittoria had actually used the word _wantonly_…accepted his suit. The affair was an unusual occurrence for La Daaé, who had never before welcomed any of her countless backstage admirers into her private chambers. Rumors had abounded throughout the opera house that Signor Villon must have been the lover for whom Christine had been so long in mourning.

Raoul had felt ill from the revelation, and he had needed to cut short Vittoria's ramblings lest his displeasure should become apparent. Not only had Christine willingly submitted herself to the very man whom he had once risked his own life protecting her from, but she had lied to him about it. Even upon discovering the painful reason for his inquiries, she had refused to reveal Erik's whereabouts to him.

His conscience would not be quieted until he had confronted his brother once again.

_His brother._

He had no desire to claim the man as such, and he need not be told that _Erik_ would feel the same abhorrence to accepting their newfound relationship. Were Raoul more like his father and brother…_brothers_…he would ignore what he had learned and selfishly continue on with his own life, but as Fate would have it, he had somehow inherited a streak of nobility that could not be silenced.

Although he had recently been exploring his own talent for trickery, and his own appreciation for ballerinas.

Yes, Vittoria had been most useful with her spiteful tongue and jealous nature. The promise of scooping up at least one of Christine's wealthy scorned lovers had led Raoul unerringly to where he now stood…in front of the Villa della Rosa on the Grand Canal.

He raised his hand with determination to ring the bell.

Christine would not deceive him again.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh, what a tangled web… 

Feedback is welcome. Thank you.


	14. Hide No Longer

**Hide No Longer**

The shrill sound of the bell startled Christine from her silent misery, but she made no move to respond to it. No one that she wished to see would need to ring for such formal admittance to the house, and she had determined before Darius even entered the parlor that she would send away whomever was at the door.

She did not bother to look at the card that was offered, but simply shook her head in refusal. "I will see no one, Darius."

He bowed obediently and left her in solitude once again. That should have been the end of the matter, but less than a minute later, the surprisingly resonant voice of the Vicomte de Chagny echoed through the villa.

"Christine Daaé! You cannot ignore me forever. I will simply wait outside until I see Erik Villon walk through these doors."

The sound of her husband's name passing Raoul's lips had her leaping from her seat in fear. She rushed to the parlor door and pressed her palms against it as she listened to the scuffle outside. Darius, God bless him, was attempting to physically eject Raoul from the house. She could so easily continue to hide in here and let the trusted servant do his duty, but that would solve nothing, and if…_when_…Nadir returned with Erik, all hell would break loose should Raoul be laying in wait. Purposefully making her decision, she threw open the door just as Raoul had been forced across the threshold.

"Darius, wait," she commanded. Both men froze in the midst of their willful shoving match and turned to stare at Christine. The sight was almost comical. "I will see the Vicomte," she said.

"Very well, ma'am," Darius said in his thick accent as stepped back from the door and straightened his waistcoat with a disapproving glare aimed at Raoul.

Christine warily showed her unexpected guest into the parlor, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She did not bother to ask him how he had found her, nor how he had learned Erik's surname, knowing that he would have encountered a fair many people at _La Fenice _more than willing to gossip about La Daaé and her lover. The mindless oversight was just another proof of her unfortunate relapse into childish oblivion.

She had chosen to forget how obstinate Raoul de Chagny could be when he set his mind to a task, suffering no dissention, but wheedling and reasoning until he had achieved his way. He had been just so in Paris. Indeed, there were times when Christine wondered at the ease with which she had broken their engagement, for he had never before listened to a word that she had said.

_Perhaps it is a family trait_, she thought with little amusement.

Raoul stood before her now, in his perfect gray suit with flawlessly coifed hair and neatly trimmed mustache, nervously juggling a wrapped parcel in his hands and undoubtedly taking note of her red, swollen eyes and disheveled appearance. She was beyond caring overmuch, and she flatly prompted, "Say what you must, and then please leave me in peace."

He placed the package carefully upon the coffee table and his blue eyes began to dart around the room as if in search for some sign of the Phantom. "I said all that I must last evening, and was lied to for my trouble," he finally directed at her, "dismissed from your presence without apology."

Christine sighed tiredly and glanced away from his accusatory expression. "I am too exhausted to relive this conversation, Raoul. What do you want from me?"

"The truth," he said sharply. "You have seen him again."

A statement of fact, not a question, and Christine no longer had the strength or desire to deny it. "Yes."

"You know where he is."

She laughed without humor, truthfully saying, "At this moment, no, I do not."

"You will forgive me if I am inclined to doubt your word, Christine."

She shook her head in frustration. "What do expect to achieve by this foolish pursuit of him? You cannot possibly think that it will end well."

"I am duty bound to make some restitution for the sins of my father," Raoul insisted with his bothersome superior intonation. "His selfish action was the cause of every evil done to, and by, my _brother. _I cannot erase the past, all I can offer is the truth." With a resigned sigh, he added, "It will be for Erik to decide what he wishes to do with the knowledge."

Christine sank down weakly into a chair, and pressed a weary hand over her eyes. "This is all too unbelievable," she whispered shakily, more to herself than to Raoul. She was completely unaware that the unconscious action drew his attention to the sparkle of ruby and gold adorning her finger.

In two strides he was standing over her, seizing her wrist and pulling her hand up for his inspection. He ignored her surprised gasp as he stared at the offending rings in disbelief. "You have _married_ him? My God, Christine, how _could _you?"

She reclaimed her hand from his grasp with a forceful tug and glared up at him. "You were happy enough to believe him my lover," she accused, and dropped all pretense. "You have no right to object to my taking him as a husband!"

Christine was mildly surprised that Raoul had failed to discover her marriage before appearing on her doorstep, for she knew that the gossip at the theater was beginning to swirl around the ruby that adorned her finger. While she had made no formal announcement of her wedding upon returning from Milan, she had only ever removed her rings during performances. The whispers that she had been hearing told of a secret engagement…an irony that did not fail to escape her notice.

"I object to the endless lies and betrayals in the name of your _damned angel_," Raoul snapped. Taking a deep breath, he continued in a somewhat milder tone, "I came to Venice only because I could think of no other person who would know _Erik_ as you did, save Madame Giry perhaps, but she would tell me nothing. I thought that in finding you, I might find him as well, but I hadn't imagined," he trailed off in frustration. "I have always known that you would never purge him from your mind, Christine, but I had thought you wiser than to offer yourself so completely to a_ murderer_."

Christine slowly arose from her seat to stand proudly before him. Very deliberately, she raised her hand and slapped Raoul across the cheek. His head jolted to the side from the force of her blow, and he brought his own hand up to distractedly rub at his stinging flesh. He stared at her with wide eyes, clearly shocked that she would attack him.

"I would thank you not to insult my husband in his own home," she said imperially. "He has gone through hell and come back a better man for the journey. Your presence here can cause nothing but misery to us all. Erik will never accept your truth, Raoul, and you would be wise to leave now. You can have nothing more to say to either one of us."

Raoul hissed out a breath, regarding her unyielding countenance with wary eyes. "How can you have so easily forgiven all that he has done?"

"I love him," she said simply, fully aware that Raoul could never hope to understand the soul deep connection that she shared with Erik.

He visibly flinched at her quiet declaration, then nodded imperceptibly and pulled back his shoulders in an attempt to regain his dignity. "Very well, Christine," he acceded, turning from her to bend down and open the parcel that he had arrived with. "I will go, but only upon your word that you will deliver these to your _husband_."

In the midst of the plain brown paper were six weathered journals which he placed in a neat little pile upon the table. The damning evidence of Erik's true bloodline was imprinted within those worn yellow pages. "These are the volumes from the last the last ten years of Philippe's life," Raoul said as he gestured to the journals. "It seems that he was a rather prolific writer. If nothing else, I am certain that Erik will find some amusement in them. Proof of how petty and cruel the human race can be. If he wishes to know more," Raoul leveled his gaze directly upon Christine, "about his father, or his mother, or the _illustrious _De Chagny line," he said with sarcasm, "then you may inform him that he will be welcome in the home of the Baroness d'Amboise, our aunt…whom I am certain that you must recall. She is most eager to meet with him."

Raoul crossed to the parlor door, and resting his hand upon the knob, he turned back to Christine one final time. "I shall be visiting Rome for the next several weeks, to discuss a settlement with Giuliana Sorelli and to meet my niece, Eva. More of Philippe's unfinished business, you see? Forgive me for my intrusion into the peaceful little life that you have made here with your _beloved_ _husband_."

With his speech concluded, Raoul offered a stiff bow, muttering, "Good day, Madame Villon," before he retreated from the room. Christine stared after him mutely, watching Darius firmly close the door behind him as he left the villa. When she turned back into the parlor, she found the journals of Philippe, Comte de Chagny taunting her from the table.

Her world would turn with those pages.

xXx

The blanket of twilight had fallen over Piazza San Marco before Nadir Kahn finally managed to locate his quarry. He prided himself as a skilled detective, yet it had taken him hours to locate Erik in plain sight…sitting upon a bench in the square and staring blindly at the basilica.

The Persian quietly settled next to his friend, his own dark eyes following Erik's line of sight to gaze upon the spires of San Marco. "I confess that this is not where I expected to find you."

Erik said nothing for nearly a full minute before a shaky hiss of breath broke the silence. "Did you imagine that I was hidden away in some hole after happily murdering that damned boy?"

Nadir turned to look at the man beside him, but saw only the cold features of the mask. "You have not done anything irrevocable, have you?"

"Not as of yet, but the night is still young," he said. His eyes never wavered from their focus across the piazza.

His rage of the afternoon had long since faded into a dull ache within his chest. With every step that he had taken away from the Villa della Rosa, the revenge that he hungered for clawed at his soul, coiling and writhing like a living beast until he had finally stopped dead in the middle of an avenue and nearly fallen to his knees in pain. Then there had been only emptiness.

He was unaware of how he had even come to be at the piazza, or of how long he had been sitting on that bench. His world had gone dark well before the sunlight had begun to fade.

"Your wife has asked me to bring you home," Nadir said.

Erik's jaw tensed visibly, and another silent moment passed. "This is where I first spoke to her again, Daroga. Did you know that? We danced right over there," he said distantly. "She held me in her arms upon this very bench on the night that she first confessed her love to me." A bitter laugh escaped him, "All lies."

"Do you really believe that, my friend?"

Erik turned to Nadir with flashing eyes and growled, "What else am I expected to believe? She has seen her handsome _Vicomte _behind my back and could say nothing…_nothing_…to defend herself!"

Nadir threw out his hands in frustration, demanding, "How could she defend herself against your damnable temper?"

"Very easily," Erik snapped. "She need only have said that the ignorant fool means nothing to her."

Nadir shook his head and sighed, "Erik, she loves you. Had she wanted the young Vicomte, she would have married him years ago. Or have you conveniently forgotten that fact?"

"I have forgotten _nothing_," he hissed.

Nadir rolled his eyes at the petulant display. "Then you should remember that your intractable temper has only ever driven Christine away from you."

Erik slumped against the bench, looking for all the world like a lost little boy. He detested the way that Nadir would bluntly state the obvious in that smug way of his. Even worse was the knowledge that his friend was nearly always correct in his observations. Sullenly, he asked, "What would you have me do, Daroga?"

The Persian sighed, "Go home, Erik. Talk to your wife."

"And if I do not like what she has to say?"

Nadir shrugged, "At least you will know the truth."

Erik was not certain that he wished to know whatever truth Christine had been so determined to keep from him. Every moment of happiness that he had experienced in the past six months had been called into question by her thoughtless deception, and should he discover yet more betrayal, then he honestly could not trust himself to keep his demons at bay.

xXx

The sound of the front door opening and Nadir's calm, quiet voice alerted Christine to the blessed fact that Erik had safely returned home. Now it would fall to her to keep him from disappearing again.

She met them both in the foyer, with one of Philippe de Chagny's journals tucked safely into her arms. Her marriage was far too precious for her to risk over secrets that neither she nor Erik had kept, and so she stood before her husband prepared to beg his forgiveness and offer full disclosure of all that she now knew.

His face was coldly impassive as he glared at her from the doorway, and she prayed that he would grant her exoneration for her foolishness. Drawing a breath, she said, "Please forgive me, Erik. I am ready now to tell you everything."

* * *

**A/N: **Many of you were understandably upset with Christine's little decline back into childish oblivion in the last chapter. I hope she has begun to redeem herself in this one, at least in part. And Erik reined in that vicious temper of his a bit…after a good sulk. 

If you were expecting the Erik/Raoul confrontation…well, delayed gratification builds character. Erik will have enough to deal with when Christine tells him just what she'd been trying (very poorly) to hide.

Feedback is always appreciated...and I thank you.


	15. Forgive Me

**Forgive Me  
**

"Forgive you?"

Erik gazed at Christine in angry disbelief. Now that _she_ was ready to confess, he was to expected to grant her pardon and calmly listen to her excuses.

"Erik," Nadir softly prompted, "listen to your wife."

He sighed in frustration as he attempted to push down his irritation and resentment. "Very well," he conceded. "What have you to tell me, Christine?"

She briefly dropped her eyes to the book in her arms and Erik felt a prickle of curiosity despite his dark mood. When she looked up again, she met his eyes with determination. "Please come into the parlor."

"_Said the spider to fly,_¹" Erik interrupted dryly. Nadir chuckled beside him, and he shot the Persian a warning glare before returning his attention to Christine. "Tell me, my dear, which one am I this evening?"

She gave a frustrated shake of her head and retreated silently into the parlor. Erik followed, watching her carefully as she placed the book upon the table next to a matching set before she turned to him and commanded, "Sit down."

He crossed his arms defiantly. "I would prefer to stand."

"Sit...down," she hissed with a flash of annoyance, clearly in no mood for his games.

Erik raised a brow and turned back to glance at Nadir who was standing in the doorway behind him attempting to smother a vague look of amusement. The Persian merely shrugged. "I think that I will leave you both to your privacy."

"Thank you, Nadir," Christine said politely, to which he nodded obediently and gently closed the door.

Muttering under his breath about '_damned Persians,' _Erik brushed past Christine and settled onto the sofa. A look of profound sadness colored her features as she carefully sat upon the edge of the cushions next to her husband.

"I love you, Erik," she began with glistening eyes. "Raoul de Chagny no longer holds any sway over my heart. His appearance in Venice was completely unexpected…and unwelcome."

_Damn her for looking so sincere_. Had she managed to recite that little speech with such a guileless expression when Erik had first discovered her rendezvous with the boy, he would certainly have believed her. Now her words sounded hollow.

"If that is so, then why hide his presence from me, Christine?"

He watched her struggle against the tears that threatened to fall, and for a moment he was certain that this conversation would unravel into more weeping and accusations, but Christine composed herself valiantly, whispering, "Because _you_ were the reason for his presence in Italy, Erik."

His fingers tightened into the cushions of the sofa as he recalled the Vicomte's attempts to bring him to justice in Paris. Christine easily read his thoughts and was quick to assure him, "He was not seeking retribution, but offering restitution."

Erik demanded, "Restitution for what?"

Christine drew a trembling breath and took one of his hands in her own. "The injustices perpetrated against you by the Comte de Chagny."

Erik stared at her in bewilderment. He vaguely recalled her boy's lecherous brother from his assignations with the ballet rats at the Parisian opera house, but Philippe de Chagny had never been of any concern to the opera ghost.

"What are you going on about, Christine? I am beginning to lose my patience."

Tears pooled in her dark eyes once again. "Your father, Erik. You told me once that you have never known who he was."

A cold blade of fury raced along his spine. "No," he growled, "and I do not care to. What does my miserable sire have to do with the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Oh, Erik," she whispered softly, "Raoul believes that you are the son of Michel de Chagny…his father."

For a long moment, Erik could hear nothing but the buzz of his own pulse pounding in his ears. He sat gaping at Christine while her words slowly penetrated the thick fog clouding his mind. _The son of Michel de Chagny. _What twisted game was this? What cruel, heartless jest? Violently ripping his hand away from hers, he stood and paced halfway across the room before spinning back with a growl.

"_Impossible_," he shouted. "Why would you repeat such vicious lies?"

"I do not believe it to be a lie, Erik. Raoul has proof of his claims."

"Of course you would believe _your boy_," he hissed.

"I did not at first," she confessed, "but the information he had…names and events…Erik, this is no invention." Christine bowed her head and fisted her hands into her skirt. "I wish that it were so that we might continue on in peace!"

Erik looked at his wife, noticing the weariness in her posture and the worry in her eyes. His anger toward her began to dissipate, but a new agony twisted to life within him. "Am I to assume that those," he gestured to table where the little stack of books rested, "are the so-called proof offered by the Vicomte."

"Yes," she affirmed, "the journals of Philippe de Chagny."

Christine reached across to the table and offered one up for his inspection. He raised his nose at the offending item and huffed, "Why should I bother to read the drivel of that backstage Casanova?"

"Please, Erik. Philippe is dead," she said softly, "and Raoul's persistent sense of duty brought him here…to seek me out in the hopes that I might be able to deliver the truth to you."

"He meant to use you to bait his trap again," Erik scoffed. The boy had already proven that he would go to any length to have his way, even if it meant placing Christine in danger.

"He knows better than to try such a scheme again," she said as she stood from the sofa and moved in front of him with the journal still in her hand. "I never wanted to tell you this, Erik. I thought that I was protecting you, but I only managed to cause you more pain."

Christine raised a tentative hand to caress his unmasked cheek, and he leaned into her touch, desperate for something solid to cling to in the face of her implausible tale. "Why do you believe him, Christine?"

She glided her fingers around the edge of his mask, carefully prying it loose and discarding it onto the nearby chair. She smiled softly then, although it was a shaky attempt. "When I stayed at the Chateau de Chagny, so lost and heartbroken after leaving you in Paris, I would sometimes spend hours alone in the library. A portrait of Raoul's father hung over the mantle and I would stare at it endlessly. His face, his eyes," she whispered as she brushed the pads of her fingers over Erik's unblemished cheek, "his mouth," and her touch fell to the curve of his lip, "they were so familiar to me. I was looking at _you_, Erik, but I failed to see it then, so blinded was I by my own misery."

Her words took his breath, and he hoarsely whispered, "I…I look…like him?"

Christine nodded. "Yes…if not for this," she lightly brushed the backs of her fingers across his deformity, "you would be his exact likeness."

Erik felt dizzy at her admission, spoken with such gentle conviction.

_Is it possible? Can I have finally discovered who my wretched father was?_

His eyes fell to the journal clasped lightly in her hand, and he gingerly reached out to take it from her with trembling fingers. "Have you read them?"

"Only some," she confessed. "The first passage. Erik...oh, Erik," she whispered brokenly, "there is mention of your face…and Madeline…and of the child disappearing from her home. It cannot be mere coincidence."

Erik gripped the journal so tightly that he thought he might rend it in two, and he gulped in breath after breath in an attempt to calm his rapidly shifting emotions. Finally staggering to the sofa, he collapsed across the cushions and stared at the damning evidence in his hands.

Uncertain fingers slowly pried the cover open, and he scanned page after page, entry after entry, until he came to the one that began '_The Comte de Chagny is dead…'_

xXx

Christine sat quietly across from Erik for the better part of the evening and into the early hours of morning while he moved through the journals like a man possessed. He had ranted and raved upon reading the first passage and discovering that the woman whom he had known as his mother had been so wholly unrelated to him. Yet the truth had been there in writing, just as Raoul had claimed, right down to Erik's name scrawled in Philippe's bold hand.

He continued to skim through the passages, pausing over the few in which Philippe had again mentioned the missing De Chagny son. Apparently, the Comte had done more investigating than Raoul had confessed. After the death of their father, Philippe had discovered, through the estate's employment records, the surname of the woman who had taken charge of his brother, and had hired an investigator to make inquiries about Madeline Laurent. He had detailed in writing each new piece of information and gossip that his francs had purchased.

_Yes_, she had last lived in Rouen.

_Yes, _she had claimed to have a son…an ugly little beast that had escaped into the woods surrounding the house once or twice before disappearing for good.

Philippe had seemed intrigued by each new discovery of his brother's past, but reluctant to actually locate him. The Opera Populáire had been notably absent from any passages until the entries dated in the late summer of 1871, when Philippe had begun to mention his disapproval of Raoul's plan to extend the De Chagny patronage to the opera house.

Erik had cursed Philippe then, realizing that the man had very probably known all along what secrets had truly been buried beneath the fifth cellar. He had damned the Comte even further when he reached the writings of the late winter and early spring of 1872. If Christine had ever had any delusions about how intensely Philippe de Chagny had despised her presence in Raoul's life, then his journals stood as proof of his loathing.

xx

_1872, 27 April_

_It is official. My noble younger brother is a hopeless fool. _

_Perhaps my ignoble younger brother as well - if the Phantom that Raoul has tangled with is, in fact, Erik. From what Raoul has told me, it seems very likely indeed._

_I blame the girl entirely. Digging her grasping claws into poor naïve Raoul even as she kept a disfigured madman for a lover. _

_Now she has broken with him and I thank God that my brother is finally free of her treacherous ways. It really matters not which brother._

_All my subtle inquiries in Paris to discover the fate of the Phantom have proved fruitless, and there has been only supposition in the two months since the fire. He truly is a ghost, it seems._

_I cannot help but be grateful that such a wretched family secret remains safely buried._

_Damn Raoul for not telling me everything sooner - an attempt to protect the reputation of his precious Christine, no doubt. When he brought her to the chateau and revealed all to me, I could have slapped the foolish boy for challenging such a man. My own fault, I suppose, for failing to tell Raoul about our wayward brother, but I was loathe to take such a risk in light of his stubborn sense of righteousness. My oversight might have been disastrous for us all._

_That little witch has thoroughly destroyed the both of them._

_Ah well, at least now she will never be a De Chagny. _

xx

Philippe must be rolling over in his grave. Somehow, unknowingly, Christine had become that which she had once dreamed and later dreaded…a De Chagny bride.

Her husband, however, was not yet in a position to appreciate the irony of the situation. He sat hunched over the last journal weeping in utter agony. He had traded a mother's loathing for that of a father and two brothers. Hardly an equitable exchange.

Christine moved cautiously to his side, frightened of where his mood might take them. She ached to comfort him, and reached out to carefully cover his hand with her trembling fingers. He stilled at her touch, then roughly twined their hands together and pulled her close, holding her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe.

"Oh, Christine," he cried after long minutes of weeping into her hair. "Lies…all lies…everything."

She closed her eyes against the anguish in his voice, and held him to her as his world fell into chaos. Rocking with him against the waves of grief, she whispered, "I am so sorry, my love."

"Am I?" he asked brokenly as he pulled back to look at her intensely with eyes pleading for her to give him some truth to cling to. "_Am_ I your love, Christine?"

She was quick to reassure him, "Of course you are, Erik. Always."

A look of pained contempt colored his features, and he growled, "My own parents could not love me. How can you?"

Those damned journals and her own foolishness over them had ripped open wounds that had yet to fully heal, and her husband was once again left insecure of his worthiness. She would have to prove her love all over again.

"Loves knows no reason, Erik. It simply is."

He stared blindly at the far wall for a time. "I…I am at a loss," he finally said. "How do I move on from this?"

"Perhaps you must look back to move forward."

His eyes narrowed as they whipped back to rest upon his wife. "I hope you are not suggesting that I meet with the _boy._"

"No," she sighed. "I am not so naïve to think such a confrontation wise," she knew it could be disastrous, especially with Erik's feelings so raw, "but Raoul bid me to tell you that your aunt, the Baroness d'Amboise, wishes to meet with you…in Paris."

"No," he stated flatly.

"Erik…"

"No, Christine," he insisted again. "I want nothing to do with any of them," he swore with finality.

She had known that he would resist. His hatred for the woman he had believed to be his mother was palpable, even when he had thought her to be no more than a poor victim of Fate forced to bear a burden that she had not wanted. Now Erik had to accept that Madeline Laurent had wronged an innocent child with intent, and there were others who had done the same...his father, and even his older brother.

Yet Christine was compelled to urge her husband to reconsider. "Erik, do you not wish to know more about your family?"

"_You_ are my family," he stubbornly asserted. "No one else matters."

She drew a deep breath as she contemplated the wisdom of pushing him on this delicate subject, but she knew that Erik had spent his entire life questioning his very existence, and now he might finally have the opportunity to discover the answers.

"Can you so casually ignore this chance? To finally know the circumstances of your birth."

He studied her dispassionately for a time before shaking his head and looking away. "You are thinking of the future again," he said quietly, "your desire to bring a child into our lives."

The subject of children had been one of some contention between them in the past months. Christine desired them, Erik did not. He had argued his point quite eloquently, reminding her of the hell that his life had been, all for the twisted flesh that marred his face. Not knowing the cause of his affliction, he did not wish to tempt Fate by siring a child of his own.

She had passionately countered that their child would never suffer his father's fate, because he would have his parents' unconditional love, no matter his appearance. Erik had thought her foolishly naïve in that belief, but she could not escape the flutter of longing that she felt at the thought of his child within her womb.

"I'll not deny it, Erik," she professed softly. "I want nothing more than to bear your children. You are the one who wishes to deny us that joy, all for the fear that you might somehow pass this misfortune," she said as she caressed his deformed cheek, "in your blood."

His eyes glistened with moisture, and she felt his hesitation. She was nearly certain that deep down, beneath the fear and uncertainty, Erik dreamed of a family in the truest sense of the word. Christine had witnessed him with Sophia's children, and she clearly recalled his infinite patience with her in those early days in Paris. She knew that he could be a wonderful father if given the chance, though he would certainly argue against her belief. He possessed such remarkable talent and genius, and to allow his legacy to die with him must certainly be a sin.

Erik sighed raggedly. "You believe that this Baroness might alleviate those fears?"

"I believe that she may be the only one who can." If nothing else, every De Chagny that Christine had ever met had been flawless in their features. Surely if there was some history of Erik's deformity in the family, the Baroness d'Amboise would know of it.

"Did you not reside with the woman for a time in Paris?"

Christine cringed slightly at the reminder of her thoughtless flight from the opera house on the night of _IL Muto _and her brief stay at the home of Raoul's aunt. "I did," she admitted meekly.

"And did she not disapprove of your presence in her _precious_ nephew's life?"

Christine ignored the sting of the question, grimly realizing that Erik would be the Baroness's nephew as well. "She was kinder than the others. She did not belittle me, merely shared her opinion that I would be wasting my talent should I marry Raoul."

Despite her husband's solemn mood, a ghost of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps I may like the Baroness after all."

* * *

¹ _Mary Botham Howitt, The Spider and the Fly (1829)_

* * *

**  
A/N: **Confession is good for the soul. 

Feedback is welcome. Thanks for your continued interest.


	16. Wandering Child

Wandering Child

Dear Madame Giry,

You have likely disparaged ever hearing from me again; it has been so long since my last letter. My only excuse is a series of events that has utterly consumed my recent life. Do not fear at the ominous tone of my declaration, for I assure you that nothing is amiss. Indeed, my life has never been so full of joy as in these past six months.

I believe that my last letter was filled with trivialities of the Carnival season and the latest production at the opera house. Oh, had I known then how my life would change!

I am a married woman now, Madame.

I know this is a shock, and I must beg your forgiveness for my silence on this matter until now, but I knew not how to broach such a delicate subject in writing.

My husband, you see, is a man very well known to you, and I pray as dear to your heart as he is to mine. By some miracle, we have found our way back to one another. Our reconcilement was no easy task, as you can well imagine, but we have both come so far from the wayward children that you once knew in Paris.

I love him dearly, and I am proud to be his wife…Madame Erik Villon.

Yes, he has told me the origin of the surname that he has taken as his own, and he hopes that you will not take offense. I do not believe that you will, for I well remember how we both grieved for him on that long ago afternoon in your salon.

It was never our intention to exclude you from our joyful news, but surely you will understand our hesitation to share so private a reunion. Yet we do so now with the hope that you will welcome us both back into your life.

A matter of no little import demands our presence in Paris. More than this, I cannot reveal with mere ink. We will be traveling from Venice on the third of September and would dearly love to see you -- and Meg! -- once again.

I will await your response.

With love,

Christine

xx

Paris in early fall was every bit as beautiful as Christine remembered. Her gaze was captivated by the changing scenery outside the tiny box window of the brougham. Beside her, Erik was fidgeting uncomfortably, but she could not quiet her own growing excitement at the prospect of seeing Madame Giry and Meg once again.

More than three years had passed since she had last seen her foster mother and sister. Less than three weeks since she had written to inform them of her impending visit. She had completed her run as _Aida _and begged off the last opera of the season to accompany Erik on his awkward homecoming. Needless to say, her understudy had been extremely pleased to learn of La Daaé's unexpected sabbatical.

Erik had not wanted to return to Paris, of that Christine was certain. The city held nothing but painful memories for him, years of hiding and skulking about the opera house cellars. His life had only truly begun upon his arrival in Italy, and the country was, quite simply, home for him now…for both of them. Yet, for Christine... for their future...he had come to learn the truth of his past.

The last weeks had seen her husband brooding endlessly over Philippe de Chagny's journals, locking himself away for hours and pounding out his frustration on the grand piano. She could not even be happy that he was composing again, for the music that issued forth from his turmoil was filled with dark, agonizing resonance.

They had quarreled repeatedly over this trip and her own desire to return to Paris at his side. Erik had wanted her to remain in Venice, safe from any possible danger, but she had refused to sit idle whilst her husband faced his childhood demons alone. She had left him no choice but to submit to her.

The rail voyage from Italy had been long and arduous, requiring them to change trains multiple times and traverse portions by coach. Erik's surly temperament coupled with Christine's ever increasing weariness over the length of the journey had made for close quarters. Toss in Nadir Kahn's acerbic repartee and it had been nearly unbearable.

They had finally arrived in the city late the previous afternoon, quietly taking rooms at the Hôtel de Crillon where Nadir remained even now. The Persian had been nearly as shocked as Erik to learn of the reason for Raoul de Chagny's arrival in Venice.

"Allah have mercy," he had said, "this cannot be true."

"That is the general consensus," Erik had muttered.

Christine sat again through the entire recounting, watching the interaction between the two men in fascination. She wondered if she would ever be able to handle her husband as effortlessly as Nadir seemed to. There had never been any question that the man would travel from Italy with them, and despite the harrowing journey, Christine was grateful for his presence. Erik's anonymity in Paris was uncertain at best, for even though he had remained hidden away from curious eyes for all but a few short months, he had made a spectacular impression during his few brief appearances…most especially the final one.

At the moment, however, his apprehension had nothing to do with the general population, and everything to do with one former ballet mistress. There had been no question of who would be visited first upon arriving in Paris. Madame Giry had been too important to both of them to be placed behind the Baroness d'Amboise, whom Erik had never met and Christine barely knew.

The letter to the Baroness had been written by Erik, no more than a brief note to inform her of the date on which to expect him. He wanted nothing more from the woman than whatever knowledge about his true parentage she could impart.

The letter to Madame Giry had been written by Christine, and had been far warmer. The necessary confessions had been difficult to make within the confines of paper and pen, and the reply received from Madame had been frustratingly vague, simply stating that Christine and her husband would be welcomed in her home.

Hence Erik's uncertainty in regards to what kind of _welcome _he might receive.

The brougham rolled to a stop in front of a shady little cottage in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and Erik inhaled sharply as he stepped to the cobblestone. He lifted a hand to help Christine down, and she gave it a reassuring squeeze, earning a weak smile from her husband. He fell into step behind her on their approach to the house, and remained to the side while she rang the bell, as if attempting to melt into the faint shadows of the afternoon.

Christine felt her own heart jump as the door swung open and she faced the imposing presence of Antoinette Giry. She pressed a hand to her nervous stomach as the woman regarded her for a moment with hard, assessing eyes. Christine felt her face begin to flame under Madame's scrutiny, just as it had when she had been a meager ballet rat late for practice. All at once, the woman's eyes began to glisten a bit and a rare smile graced her stern face.

"Welcome home, Christine," she whispered.

A smile blossomed on Christine's lips and happy tears began to fall as she moved easily into the circle of the older woman's arms. She felt her former guardian briefly return the embrace before pulling away with a small gasp.

"Erik," she whispered.

Christine watched her husband give an awkward, repentant bow before saying, "Antoinette, forgive me."

The woman shook her head and impatiently swiped an errant tear away. "You foolish boy, you were forgiven long ago." She held out a hand, and Erik took it hesitantly in greeting. "You look well," she said with her voice resuming its dry inflection, "the sunlight agrees with you."

Erik rested his shining eyes upon Christine. "Marriage agrees with me."

At the reminder, Antoinette Giry reclaimed her hand and leveled a critical scowl upon them. "I should scold you both for failing to inform me of this sooner." Christine dropped her gaze in shame, and the older woman continued in a softer tone, "but I am too happy to see you…and even happier to see you together."

Antoinette grasped Christine's hands and nodded approvingly. "Christine, my child, you look radiant," she smiled at the younger woman, "and Erik Villon," she uttered, taking his hand once again, "I am honored that you would choose to take that name."

Christine nearly wept at the tender moment, having learned both from Madame Giry and Erik how close they had once been. Villon was the name that Antoinette Giry had been known by when she had been no more than a ballet rat herself. She had proudly taken her husband's name upon her marriage, but that did not lessen the pleasure that she so obviously felt at having her own name live on through Erik.

He looked to be on the verge of submitting to his own precarious emotions before Madame Giry straightened regally and resumed her authoritarian persona. "Now come inside at once." she commanded. "We have much to speak of."

The couple followed the woman into the salon, and Christine immediately caught sight of Meg Giry as she bounced on anxious heels awaiting them. The blond had changed in subtle ways over the course of the past three years, and much of the innocence that had surrounded her like a halo had melted into an air of grace and maturity which mirrored that of her mother. Yet Meg was still Meg. All at once, the years between them disappeared and Christine was a girl again, echoing her friend's delighted squeal and racing into her arms.

"Oh, Christine, I have missed you…look at you, " Meg said in a rush, "you have changed so…and married…you sly girl…you must tell me everything."

Christine laughed at Meg's bubbly excitement. It was a comfort to know that some things would never change. "I have missed you too, Meg."

The young woman's exuberant smile wavered only slightly when her eyes found Erik, and Christine felt a stab of guilt for the veil of secrecy in which she had knowingly shrouded herself. She should have written sooner…invited them both to her wedding, but she had been so eager to be Erik's wife and had feared what Meg and her mother would say upon discovering her wanton disregard for his unsavory past.

Meg had obviously been tutored well by her mother, as she said nothing untoward, but gave a polite little curtsey to Erik, nervously murmuring, "Bon jour, m'sieur."

He chuckled good naturedly at the girl's formality, and bowed. "Bon jour, mademoiselle." He offered his most charming smile, which had always affected Christine profoundly. "I am glad to properly make your acquaintance at long last."

xXx

Hours passed in the Girys' home whilst three years worth of events were recounted in detail. When Erik finally confessed the reason for their return to Paris, both Antoinette and Meg had gone pale. Neither of them had been expecting such a revelation, and they had both been forced to admit to their own individual encounters with Raoul de Chagny.

"You do not trust him."

"Have you ever known me to trust anyone, Antoinette?"

Christine watched a vague smile appear on the older woman's face as she said, "Not easily, no."

Erik sighed, "The Vicomte can have no good reason to extend this information. Even he cannot possibly be righteous enough to welcome the likes of _me_ into his family."

"He is the likes of you," Meg stated guilelessly.

"Meg," hissed her mother.

"I only mean that they are brothers, maman," Meg said with an exasperated look. "You are always telling me that the bonds of blood cannot be broken. Perhaps the Vicomte believes the same."

Erik shifted uncomfortably at the girl's words, and Christine slipped a supportive hand into his. She knew that her husband was still most uncomfortable with the idea of being tied to the De Chagny family, and she said reassuringly, "In any case, Raoul is in Rome on business."

"No, he isn't," Meg interrupted again.

"Meg," Antoinette sharply admonished, "how could you know such a thing?"

The younger woman blushed heatedly. "He attended the ballet three nights ago with his sister and her husband. Don't look at me like that, maman," she said, "I cannot help whom I see there."

Antoinette shook her head and muttered, "I truly wonder at the things you manage to discover, child."

Erik chuckled despite himself, "A family trait, I think."

Christine could not help the giggle that escaped, especially when Meg and her mother both wore identical expressions of indignity. Then Meg giggled too, breaking the odd moment, and they all shared in the humor before Antoinette sighed and returned the conversation to more serious subjects.

"You must not do anything irrational, Erik," she warned. "Much of the old gossip has faded, but there are those who still remember the events at the opera house. You must take care."

"I intend to," he assured her. "We will remain in Paris only long enough to speak with the Baroness d'Amboise."

Antoinette nodded, "Yes, I know of her reputation. She is well respected in the city. Her late husband was a member of the Parliament before the siege and a vocal advocate of the sciences. He made generous donations to the medical academy, and the Baroness has continued his good works."

Erik tilted his head thoughtfully. "Do you think that she can be trusted?"

"I cannot be certain," she said, "but I see no cause to suspect treachery from her."

"We shall see," Erik muttered.

The rest of the afternoon passed in far more pleasant conversation, at least for Christine. Antoinette Giry and Erik eventually disappeared from the salon for what she could only imagine to be reassurances that she was being well cared for by her husband. She and Meg enjoyed a happier discussion centered around a myriad of subjects, from Erik and their marriage, to talk about her career in Venice and Meg's own growing success as a ballerina in Paris.

xXx

"I would like an explanation, Erik."

Bowing his head before Antoinette Giry in solemn atonement, he asked, "For which of my crimes?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. "Were you in such a hurry to make Christine your wife that you could not even think to wait until she could have her family present at her wedding?"

"Yes," he said unapologetically.

"Ever the impetuous boy," she grumbled, "will you never learn?"

"I have not been a boy for some time, Antoinette, as you well know," he reminded her, "and I assure you," he added cagily, "that I behaved as much a gentleman during our courtship as Christine behaved a lady."

The woman before him raised an elegant brow, clucking at him, "Why does that fail to comfort me?"

Erik grinned at his old friend. "Ah, it is good to be home. I have missed your disapproving looks and disappointed admonishments."

"I see that you have rediscovered your odd sense of humor," she said dryly, and then her eyes softened. "I am glad of it. I suspect that you will need it if you truly plan to deal with the De Chagny family."

"I do not see that I have a choice. That blasted boy appeared in Venice and crumbled the foundation of my very existence into dust. I must know the truth, Antoinette. I must know why I am," he threw a hand up in frustration, "as I am."

"Just remember that I will be here should you require my aid. I failed you once, I will not do so again."

Erik startled at her words. "You have never failed me."

"I did," she said quietly. "I lost faith in you, and left you alone with your demons."

"Antoinette," he said, placing his hands upon her overburdened shoulders, "you did all that you could. I should thank you for standing behind me for as long as you did." She looked up at him with moist eyes, and he smiled, "and I am also aware of the timely letter that you sent to our Persian friend. It very likely saved my life. You have nothing to apologize for, my friend."

Antoinette Giry closed her eyes and exhaled, nodding decidedly, she resumed her cool facade. "Very well, then. We should return…I've a feeling that there are two giggling young ladies gossiping in my salon."

"And we simply _must_ put an end to that," he replied wryly.

"I would think so," she said archly, "as they are most certainly gossiping about you, M'sieur le Fantôme."

* * *

**A/N: **Mostly filler, but a trip to Paris just wouldn't be complete without revisiting the Girys. 

Brief note about that throwaway comment referring to the siege: You may (or may not) have noticed that in both _An Elysian Piece _and_ Too Long In Winter, _I bumped the dates of the movie back one year. Instead of the winter of 1870-1871...events occurred in 1871-1872. I was unwilling to deal with the Commune and the siege of Paris that would have actually been happening during the timeline of the movie.

Thank you for the wonderful reviews.


	17. Strange Angel

**Strange Angel**

The Parisian townhouse of the Baroness d'Amboise towered over the Boulevard Saint-Germain on the left bank of the Seine, just as it had the last time that Christine had walked through its polished mahogany doors…well, been pushed through by Raoul as they had fled Paris. She was far more frightened passing through them now than she had ever been in the past, and her grip on Erik's arm tightened as they were led into the salon by a dour butler.

Nadir had accompanied them on this visit, distrustful of the Baroness's motives. He surveyed the room with interest and Christine could only imagine that he was taking mental notes and filing away each and every detail like the detective that he had once been.

"Well, this Baroness certainly has an appreciation for fine art," the Persian said as he gazed at the numerous paintings displayed upon the walls, lingering a little longer over one particular oil landscape.

"That one is by Claude Monet," came a dignified feminine voice. "He is a very promising young talent. Impressionism, they call it. Some critics do not like the style, but I find it quite appeals to me."

The Baroness d'Amboise stood in the doorway, resplendent in a stylish blue skirt and box jacket. Her once black hair was streaked liberally with gray and swept up into an elegant bun. Christine knew the woman to be more than sixty years old, but she wore her age very well and could easily be mistaken for younger. Her intelligent green-blue eyes moved from Nadir to Christine, to whom she briefly nodded in acknowledgement, before they fastened onto Erik.

She walked toward him with determination. "You could be no other but Erik," she said as she stopped in front of him. "You have the look of my brother about you. Your eyes," she murmured, and Christine was left to wonder if Erik had realized, as she suddenly had, that the Baroness's eyes were the same unique shade. "Yes, a De Chagny, no question," the Baroness decided.

Erik snorted, "Forgive me, Madame, if I choose to take that as an insult."

Christine gasped at his rudeness, well aware that the Baroness held enough sway in Paris to make their lives very difficult should she be so inclined. No one was more surprised than she when the older woman smiled in amusement.

"I see that you have inherited the De Chagny arrogance, as well."

Nadir attempted to stifle a laugh at the woman's candor, and Christine suddenly felt as though she were trapped in some surreal dream. Beside her, Erik flinched imperceptibly, but the Baroness remained immune to the tension that surrounded her. "I do not blame you for your anger. This family has committed a grievous wrong against you, but I intend to rectify that."

"I want nothing from you but an explanation," he vowed evenly.

"You shall have it," the woman said, "but first we must have a proper introduction." She turned then, smiling pleasantly at Nadir and extending a delicate hand. "I am Madame le Baronne Anne-Marie de Chagny d'Amboise."

"Nadir Kahn, Madame," he said with a gallant bow as he took her hand and placed a kiss upon it.

The Baroness nodded in approval and turned to Christine. "And you, Christine, must allow me to tell you how very glad I am that you took my advice and have not wasted your God given gift for music."

She colored, remembering the woman's words so many years before. "Thank you, Madame."

The older woman smiled and added, "Of course, you have still managed to become a Comtesse, if unintentionally."

Christine sucked in a breath and pressed a hand against her waist, feeling suddenly ill at the reminder that she could truly be the Comtesse de Chagny. The Baroness's keen eyes caught the unconscious gesture and she seemed to take a closer look at Christine.

Erik, however, was quickly losing his patience, and he'd had very little to spare. "Madame," he warned, "kindly refrain from insulting my wife."

The Baroness looked genuinely surprised by the accusation. "I intended no insult. I merely speak a fact. You are the true and rightful Comte de Chagny, by order of your birth."

"Yes, my joyless birth! That event which condemned me to be disowned my noble _father_," Erik growled. "I want nothing to do with your useless title. I only wish to know the circumstances by which I was cursed to wear this mask upon my face."

"Very well," she said, wholly unaffected by Erik's show of temper. "If you will all have a seat, I will tell you everything that I know…from the beginning."

Christine felt a tremor pass through her and she looked to Erik. Outwardly, he had affected the cool, indifferent persona that she so abhorred, but she could sense his turbulent emotions rolling violently under the calm of his mask. As they sat upon the sofa across from the Baroness, she took her husband's hand and entwined their fingers, silently offering him the support that he would need. Nadir selected a chair to the side, far enough to allow the illusion of privacy but near enough to offer aid to his friend if he should require it.

The Baroness drew a breath and folded her hands in her lap, leveling her eyes steadily upon Erik. "My brother, Michel-Philippe de Chagny, twelfth Comte de Chagny, was a proud, obstinate son of the aristocracy," she began. "He learned tradition upon the knee of our father, and as a man, he believed the old ways to be right. No one could ever turn Michel from his thinking once he had made up his mind. You may have noticed that young Raoul shares that particular trait."

Erik hissed his displeasure at the comment, but the Baroness paid him no heed and continued, "Michel was more than ten years my senior, and the gap between us was acute. While our parents rested all of their expectations upon my brother, they indulged me in my willful pursuit of frivolity, which I confess, did not end until I married the Baron, God rest his soul."

"It was one of these frivolities, the opera, which led me to form a fast friendship to a young woman of wealth, but no title, Régine Eriksson. Your mother, Erik." Christine felt her husband's hand tighten around hers. "You see now where your name originates?" Erik swallowed convulsively, offering a slight nod as he silently waited for her to proceed.

"Régine's father was a Danish born mathematician named Anders Eriksson, who had been educated as an actuary in England before immigrating to France where he became very successful in the field. It was in Paris that he met Régine's mother, Jacqueline, the daughter of a French navel officer."

"Jacqueline had always adored music, and her daughter would be no different. The Eriksson family regularly attended performances at the opera, and it was there that I first met Régine. We giggled and gossiped as young girls are wont to do, and soon we were lunching together often and I was given leave to invite her to the family parties. This is where she met Michel."

"My brother was more than thirty years of age by then, and he had been no stranger to the fairer sex. He was an imposing figure, full of arrogant swagger and the promise of power…and he was beautiful to look upon, with dark hair and glittering eyes and a face that Michelangelo himself might have sculpted."

Pain flashed in Erik's eyes and he self-consciously lifted a hand to his mask. The Baroness watched his gesture and said, "What you hide does not alter the beauty of what remains uncovered, my boy. If you doubt my words, you need only ask your wife."

Erik turned to look quizzically at Christine, and she smiled tremulously, whispering, "You _are _beautiful to me, Erik." His eyes fluttered shut and he squeezed her hand in appreciation.

"Your father's vanity had never needed soothing, and it made him dangerous," the Baroness continued. "Women threw themselves at him shamelessly, and he partook of the ones that pleased him and discarded the ones that did not. Philippe, God rest his soul, inherited _that _unfortunate trait. In any case, my brother took one look at Régine and decided that he must have her. She was beautiful and intelligent and possessed the voice of an angel, though she was bashful to sing in public. Having been warned of Michel's charms by me, she did not receive his advances eagerly…at first. I think, perhaps, that it was her initial rejections of him that drove Michel to possess her completely."

With a description so similar to their own history, Christine felt Erik grow tense, but the Baroness did not pause in her tale. "After much wooing, he finally managed to sway her heart. They married within the year, and by the next, Philippe had been born. I was beyond pleased to have my dearest friend become my sister, but I was also worried for her. She was such a gentle soul, wide eyed and compassionate almost to a fault, while my brother was hard and demanding and at times so very self-obsessed that he failed to see the damage that he could inflict upon her with a few thoughtless words. She cried on my shoulder more times than I could count, but she also loved Michel beyond reason, and he loved her equally."

"Her confinement with Philippe had been difficult, and the doctor had ordered her to remain abed for the last of it. The birth had been an ordeal, and we nearly lost Régine during the delivery. Michel was frantic with worry, and when the doctor advised that they not attempt another child, he immediately agreed. He had his heir after all, and he believed himself disciplined enough to assure his beloved wife's well being...but life does not always cooperate. For five years, they remained a happy little family of three. Michel had his outbursts and Régine her hysterics, but they always forgave one another. Then she became with child again."

"From the very beginning, Michel acted badly. He could never admit his own flaws, you see, and so he could not be blamed for failing to contain his…_ardor_...for his wife. Add to that the fact that he had always been a jealous, rather possessive husband, and you can see the potential for disaster, even had all gone well with her second confinement." Erik shifted again, turning his face away from the Baroness in an effort to control his emotions.

"Nothing that happened next was your fault, Erik. You must believe that. Your mother loved you from the moment that she discovered your existence. She spent the endless hours of her confinement singing and reading aloud to the life within her. It was nearly all that she _could_ do, as she was ordered to bed rest much earlier than with Philippe. I visited with her as often as I was able, and could see the happiness that she felt at her condition, even as Michel's foolish behavior began to wear upon her strength."

"My brother blamed her, you see. Deep down, I believe that he was terrified of losing Régine, but he could not admit to those fears, and instead turned on her in the most hateful of ways. That he was denied the comfort of his wife whilst she carried you only made matters worse, and he began to question Régine's faithfulness to him, believing as he did that he had been diligent in his methods of ensuring that she not become with child. Of course, he was a man, so his diligence had never extended to a complete absence from their marriage bed."

"Despite all of this, I believe that your mother would have forgiven him everything had the night of your birth not resulted in such tragic consequences. I was not there for the event. By then, I was married to the Baron and we had been abroad in England for a time. I had believed that Régine would not reach the end of her confinement for at least another month. I was wrong, and for that I am so very sorry, Erik," her voice broke then for the first time, and tears began to glisten in her eyes. "Had I been present, I assure you that matters would have ended much differently."

"I was told later that your mother's labor had been much more difficult than with Philippe, and that she lost a great deal of blood…too much," she said on a restrained sob. "When finally you came into the world, the _doctor_," she spat with disdain, "declared that you would not be long for the world. Régine was said to have begged to see you with her last breaths, smiling upon you and whispering your name…Erik Michel…before she passed from this world."

The Baroness stopped then, overcome with her own emotions. Christine's tears rained down her face unchecked, and she chanced a look at Erik only to find him in much the same state. Nadir, the only one of them managing to remain composed, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and arose to offer it to the Baroness. She accepted it with a grateful look and nodded to him before dabbing at her eyes.

"Never doubt that your mother loved you, Erik," the woman whispered.

"My _father_," he rasped gruffly, then cleared his throat and demanded, "what explanation did _he_ offer?"

The Baroness sighed, "My husband and I returned from England as soon as we received word that Régine and the child had perished, but upon our arrival in Paris, Michel would not see me for days. I know now that he was terrified that I would discover the truth. When he finally did speak with me, he told me that the child, his son, for he would not dare question the fidelity of his dead wife in front of me, had been born with a horrible defect. The right side of the face, from lip to forehead, had been twisted and malformed…barely a face at all. Michel insisted that the boy had been unable to survive with such a deformity. The doctor had attested to this as well, and I had no cause to doubt."

Erik leaned forward, demanding, "What reason did the doctor give? Did he tell you the cause of this," he gestured to his mask, "misfortune?"

The woman sighed, "An accident of Fate. He could offer no other account for it, except a belief that your mother's difficult confinement and delivery may have been the cause." Erik looked at his wife with pain in his eyes, and Christine became suddenly aware that her free hand was resting protectively over her womb. She let it fall away just as the Baroness perceptively added, "There is no history of any other such occurrence in the De Chagny line."

Erik's eyes whipped back to his aunt. "That you are aware of," he growled.

She sighed and confirmed, "Yes."

"Then we can have nothing more to discuss," he muttered hoarsely. Christine could feel her husband's profound disappointment at discovering that there seemed to be no definitive answer to the question that had plagued him for his entire life.

"We have _everything_ to discuss," the Baroness passionately continued. "I damn my brother for what he did. Already having one perfect son, he callously discarded a second whom he deemed unworthy of him. Had I but known the truth, Erik, you would never have left my sight. Michel _knew _that I would have taken you as my own without hesitation. Not only did I love your mother, but also the Baron and I had tried since the earliest days of our marriage for a child of our own without success…and to abandon an innocent baby…_no_…this I cannot forgive. When Raoul told me what Michel had confessed to upon his deathbed…and Philippe, that poor, misguided boy…I knew that it must be true. Seeing you now, I am certain. You are the likeness of my brother, but I can see Régine in you as well."

Erik closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and releasing the breath slowly as he struggled to remain in control of his precarious emotions. Finally, he asked, "What of Madeline Laurent? What can you tell me of her?"

The Baroness sneered at the hated name, "She was a greedy, grasping woman who used my brother to perfection. Régine employed her out of pity, for Madeline was not born into service. She had been raised in comfort as the daughter of a successful merchant. Misfortune befell the family, and Madeline, though she was beautiful, had little to recommend her and no useful skills. She was your mother's lady's maid for many years, but is was not until Régine's difficult confinement with you that Madeline found herself in a position for advancement…into Michel's bed. She became his mistress, and I wonder now how many of his actions may have been influenced by her."

Erik looked to be near the end of his control, and he growled, "His mistress? Then how did I come to be in her care?"

"I cannot be entirely certain of those events, but I know that Michel was devastated by your mother's death. Despite his actions, he had loved her deeply, and mourned her for nearly a decade. He only confessed to me his affair with _that woman_ many years later, after he had married again to Élise and Raoul's mother, and I know that he felt immense guilt and disgust for his dalliance. He told me that he had immediately dismissed Madeline from his sight, and that she had been duly compensated by him to ensure her continued absence from his life. I knew that much to be true, as she had been already gone from the chateau when I returned from England. Perhaps she took charge of you in an attempt to remain in his good graces, or perhaps it was the only way she could think to profit from the misfortune. Only she could have told you for certain, and she is dead."

"May she rot in hell," muttered Erik.

Christine gave into her urge to comfort her husband then, lifting their enjoined hands to her lips and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. "Are you all right, my love?"

He gazed at her in gratitude and managed a thin smile. "As long as you are beside me, mon ange."

The Baroness watched their interaction closely, and Christine was acutely aware of the older woman's sharp eyes upon her, judging her, no doubt wondering how she could have moved so easily from one of her nephews to another.

"Now, I have a question for you," she finally said to Erik. "Will you accept your birthright as the Comte de Chagny?"

* * *

**A/N: **Poor Erik still doesn't have the one answer that he was most hoping for. Considering the circumstances of his birth and exile from the family, it would have been unlikely for the Baroness to know if there was a cause for Erik's deformity sans any medical examination. 

Feedback is welcome...let me know what you think of the Baroness.

Thanks for the wonderful reviews.


	18. Guide and Guardian

**Guide and Guardian**

"_Will you accept your birthright as the Comte de Chagny?"_

Was the woman mad?

The idea that Erik could simply step into the family that had shunned him and claim an aristocratic title regardless of his past misdeeds was entirely ludicrous. "In your own words, Madame, Erik Michel de Chagny died on the day that he was born," he said coldly. "I am nothing but a ghost."

The Baroness raised a brow and a semi smile curved her lips. "Do not make the mistake of thinking me a foolish old woman ignorant of your past transgressions. Raoul explained them to me in detail, but I will tell you as I told him, it makes no difference. You are my nephew; the oldest living son of my brother. Whether you wish it or not, I will claim you as family."

Erik could only stare at the woman; his mind too jumbled with the story of his birth, his true mother, to possibly concentrate on the implications of being claimed as the Baroness's nephew. He had believed himself to be prepared for whatever the woman would tell him, but hearing her speak so lovingly of his mother made him realize just what he had been denied by her death.

"Pardon me, Madame le Baronne," interrupted Nadir, speaking for the first time since the woman's fantastic tale had begun, "but how would you propose to accomplish such a feat? By record of law, the second son of the Comte Michel de Chagny is deceased. To claim otherwise at this late date would seem an impossibility, and could only serve to expose Erik's…unfortunate ties to the opera house."

_Ah, Daroga_, Erik thought, _always the voice of reason._

He was grateful that his old friend was here with him. As much as he found in strength in Christine's warm presence at his side, the steady, unwavering hand of Nadir Kahn always seemed to keep him from falling back into his more destructive habits.

"My late husband had many friends in all manner of professions, from Parliament to law and medicine, and he was owed a great many favors by the time of his death. Favors which I have in my power to call into repayment," the Baroness said with confidence, and no one in the room dared question her assertion.

"The matter of the botched birth records has already been rectified; the unethical corruption of the doctor attending your delivery was confessed years ago to a friend in the medical profession, or so it now appears." The woman's eyes were positively alight with calculated deviousness as she reasoned, "It will not be difficult at all to claim that the doctor was in league with Madeline Laurent in a vicious plot to kidnap the child of the poor grieving Comte de Chagny, especially when that same doctor was seen in Rouen attending her and the child that she kept locked away."

Erik inhaled sharply, "Doctor Raniér?"

"Yes," said the Baroness. "You obviously recall the man."

"Vividly," he growled. Other than his mo…_Madeline_…the little weasel of a man had been the only human soul allowed into contact with him as a boy, and even then, the doctor had disappeared entirely after Erik's fifth year.

"As for the rest," his aunt continued with a waive of her hand, "a suitable story will be circulated to explain your long, unfortunate absence from the family, and subsequent return to us."

The stubborn woman made it all sound so easy, and Erik was loath to admit how impressed he was with her cunning mind. He gestured to his mask, "And this?"

"Madeline Laurent abused you horribly," she said rationally, "leaving you with scars that you prefer to cover."

"And how will you explain away my time as the Phantom?"

The Baroness sighed, "An unfortunate coincidence." She ignored Erik's derisive snicker, saying, "You would be surprised at the varying recounts of events at the opera house. The death of that stagehand had been immediately passed off as an unfortunate accident by those two foolish managers. The _Époque _subsequently reported such incredible feats performed by the so-called opera ghost that no one could believe them, nor did anyone seem to know what had really occurred on the night of the fire. Many came to believe that everything preceding that final performance had been no more than a fabrication by the managers to gain publicity and sell the seats."

"The unruly mob that traversed the lower levels of the Opera Populáire had been already drunk on the furor of what had been advertised as _the Phantom's Opera,_ and pushed beyond reason by the ensuing events. They found no ghost on that night, and could only claim to have seen an unfortunately disfigured man unmasked upon the stage. None of the witnesses could agree upon the details of his appearance, nor could the managers even offer any description of him." The Baroness looked pointedly at Christine as she finished. "The few who would have been able to expose the truth chose not to."

Christine nodded slowly and turned to her husband. "She is correct, Erik. I never confessed anything to the authorities, not even the existence of the Phantom, and I claimed to have no memory of the events on the night of the fire. I begged Raoul to do the same, and he reluctantly agreed to honor the request that you had made of us to keep your secrets."

The Baroness spoke once again, continuing to relay the facts that she knew. "Raoul has told me that his sworn statement to the inspector declared that the man who had masqueraded as the Opera Ghost had perished in the cellars. The word of the Vicomte de Chagny was not to be questioned. He only confessed the truth to Philippe, who had his own reasons for remaining silent on the subject. What little I knew prior to Philippe's death was gained completely from the reports in the _Époque _and the gossip around Paris. Raoul would never speak of it with me until recently."

"I understand that your friend, Madame Giry, would say nothing on the matter, and claimed that managers were to blame for everything. As for the unfortunate incident with the chandelier, the tragedy was long ago ruled an accident by the investigators, caused by faulty rigging of the mechanism during preparation for the performance that night."

Erik averted his eyes in guilt, for he well remembered rigging those mechanisms himself. His escape with Christine from the bridge had always been intended to bring down that hideous monstrosity of glass, although he had believed that the crash would cause damage only to the front of the stage. Unfortunately, he had somewhat miscalculated the trajectory.

"The De Chagny name still holds sway in this city," the Baroness said. "If we say that you have no ties to the Phantom, then you do not. You will be protected here," she insisted.

Erik looked at the woman in disbelief. She had no good reason to absolve him of his crimes, some of which had been perpetrated against the very family that she claimed to be so important to her. He gazed intently at his aunt, demanding, "What of the _Vicomte_? He has told you of our history, yet you choose to ignore it."

His aunt's face darkened. "No, I do not ignore it, Erik. Nor do I condone it," she shook her head sadly, "but neither do I condone the actions that Raoul took against you. He has always been a tenacious boy, and he was raised with every comfort that could be provided to him, so I am afraid that he has had little understanding of those less fortunate. He acted as he thought best, and you, I think, acted in the only way you knew. I must forgive you both for your ignorance."

Erik turned away from her unflinching stare, unable to bear its weight upon him. He was still so unused to receiving such compassion from strangers, even after his experiences in Milan with Alonzo's family. Yet they had not known of his past, and _this _woman…_his aunt_… knew of the horrors that he had caused and was still able to forgive him. His eyes stung with tears that he did not wish to shed in view of the Baroness.

"You are attempting to rationalize my easy forgiveness of your past. Your logic undoubtedly tells you that I am not to be trusted, but I assure you that reason rarely applies to any matter regarding one's family," she said dryly. "You must simply learn to accept some things on faith."

Erik expelled his breath in a slow hiss at the woman's words, and Christine reached up to caress his cheek, offering him a tender smile. "Erik," she whispered in her sweet voice, "my love, I am here beside you…whatever you choose."

His eyes fell closed as he leaned into her touch for a moment before inhaling deeply and turning his attention back to his aunt. "I am not…opposed…to furthering our acquaintance, Madame. Anything more, I cannot agree to on this day."

"I would expect nothing less of you, nephew," the Baroness said with a kind smile. Erik started at the endearment and he was left speechless with his chest feeling strangely tight.

"Now I must insist that you all stay to lunch with me. I suspect that we could all use the sustenance." His aunt focused her gaze upon Christine with a soft smile, "do you not agree, my dear?"

Erik watched his wife color prettily at the Baroness's question, and he wondered at it. The two women seemed to be having some silent communication between them, and it made him decidedly nervous. Christine had told him little of what had occurred during those brief weeks that she had stayed in the home of the Baroness, but he knew that his wife had been uncomfortable here. He sensed no blatant disapproval from the older woman, and in fact, he was somewhat confused by how easily his aunt seemed to be accepting Christine after the havoc that she had played with _the boy's_ young heart...both of their hearts really, though Erik's, at least, had been mended at long last.

"Yes," Christine said shyly, "of course, Madame."

"Good, it is settled," the Baroness decreed with a firm nod. She straightened regally from her chair, and both Erik and Nadir reflexively stood. "If you will follow me then, we shall adjourn to the dining room. I took the liberty of having the cook prepare a meal for us."

Nadir chuckled, "I admire a woman who is prepared."

"A woman with hope, monsieur," she corrected with a smile, and held out her hand expectantly. "You and I will have much to discuss, I think."

Nadir grinned and tucked her palm into the crook his arm. "I like your aunt, Erik," he said with a wink before turning to escort the Baroness from the room.

Erik glared at his friend's retreating form, and then turned back to his wife, taking her hand and helping her to stand. "I am not entirely certain that I trust the two of them together," he muttered.

Christine smiled softly at him. "The Baroness is…a remarkable woman."

With a tilt of his head, Erik considered this response. "You have changed your opinion of her, then?"

Christine shrugged. "I am not certain that I ever had a different opinion. She was never anything but kind to me, though she questioned the suitability of my attachment to Raoul," she shifted uncomfortably as she whispered the taboo name, and Erik felt a flash of guilt that his past actions had made speaking it so difficult for Christine. "I think now that I may have misinterpreted her forthrightness for censure."

He chuckled at that. "She does seem to speak her mind."

"Yes," she agreed with a grin, and then her face grew serious. "Erik, can what the Baroness proposed really be possible? Can you simply become the Comte de Chagny without consequence?"

Erik found himself wondering that as well. The woman had seemed rational enough in her theory, and he could not question her connections in Paris, but even with her support, there were at least two other De Chagnys who would undoubtedly object were Erik to intrude upon their perfectly ordered lives. Yet had not the Vicomte himself come to Italy in search of his missing brother? How much of that had been at the command of their imperious aunt?

"I do not know, mon ange," he confessed. Then an errant thought took hold of him unbidden, and he asked with a slight edge to his voice, "Do you wish to be the Comtesse de Chagny?"

She glanced away from him, sighing tiredly. "Had I wanted a title, I could have had it long ago," she reminded him quietly.

"Forgive me, Christine," he said as he pulled her into his arms. "I know better than to question you now." He tilted her face to his and pressed a soft kiss upon her lips. "I want nothing to do with that damned title, except in the satisfaction that I might take in spiting the two men who held it before me. My life is in Venice with you, and _you_, my dear, belong upon the stage. I would not deprive you of that."

Christine grinned up at him, entwining her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Erik. You cannot know what it means to hear you say those words." She ghosted a kiss over his lips, and then pulled back to gaze at him with twinkling eyes and a mysterious grin. "Still, I will not be able to perform forever. Perhaps we could both enjoy tormenting the Parisian society once I have retired from the stage."

Erik laughed at the evidence of his unsavory influence upon her. "Oh Christine," he said in good humor, "whatever has become of you?"

"Precisely what I would like to know," came the angry voice of Raoul de Chagny.

* * *

**A/N: **This chapter delves a little into the question of Erik's unsavory past. Formula: De Chagny _equals_ (money _plus_ power) _equals_ get out of jail free. Certainly not something that could happen nowadays. (snicker) 

As always, thank you for the kind reviews.


	19. Here In This Room

**Here In This Room **

Raoul stood in his aunt's salon nearly choking on the vision of Christine and her _husband_ together. He had not seen them thus since that wretched night of the opera house disaster, and he would have been happy to never see them as they were now, with hands and hearts so obviously entwined. She had never looked more beautiful, or more content, and to know that it was all for Erik was a bitter tonic. Perhaps he could have announced his presence in a kinder way, but he was beyond caring about soothing _their_ feelings when his own were in such turmoil.

His interruption of their tender moment jolted Christine, and she spun in her husband's arms with a gasp. "Raoul?"

The Phantom's gaze collided violently with his rival and he growled, "De Chagny," as he moved away from Christine's side and took a menacing step forward.

"Erik, no…please," cried Christine as she frantically grabbed at his arm.

A rush of adrenaline shot through Raoul's blood, and he felt his heart rate speed from the temporary high. He could remember every excruciating detail of their final confrontation, and he wanted nothing more than to have that moment back again, free of the bone seeping weariness that had assaulted him after his struggle to reach the Phantom's lair with his life intact. Perhaps his anger was making him brave…or foolish. "Let him go, Christine," he urged. "I have no cause to fear him in a fair fight."

"You are a fool if you believe that, _boy_," Erik sneered, easily tugging his arm out of his wife's meager grasp, "but I am more than happy to prove you wrong."

"Erik," Christine tried again, this time physically placing herself between the two men, hands braced upon her husband's shoulders and staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Please don't do this."

Raoul felt his heart twist painfully at the sight of her begging that _creature_ for mercy. _Again. _He had tried to accept all that he had learned in the past months, and he had believed himself prepared for the reality that the woman he loved…_had loved_, _damn it_…had offered herself up as a willing sacrifice to her _Angel of Music_, but he had only been deluding himself.

"My God, Christine," he spat incredulously, "must you beg him to behave as any normal man should?"

Erik's eyes flashed dangerously, and Raoul knew that, if not for the woman between them, he would have already felt the man's hands around his throat, happily squeezing the breath from his lungs. Christine spun around then, one hand still pressed back against Erik, and Raoul barely recognized her, such fury did he see upon her countenance.

"You are no better than he is, Raoul," she accused. "You came to Venice swearing amnesty for the past, and yet you attack him at your first opportunity! You should be ashamed of yourself," she spat. Behind her, Erik snorted in amusement, and she twisted back to him. "Both of you!"

"I concur," said the Baroness d'Amboise from the doorway.

Raoul turned to look at his aunt, seeing immediately her disappointed gaze resting upon him. There was a strange foreign gentleman behind her, and Raoul could only assume him to be the Persian that he had learned seemed to shadow Erik wherever he went.

"Raoul," she said, "I did not expect you to call upon me this afternoon."

_Has the world gone mad? _he thought.

"I did not realize that I needed an invitation to visit with my own aunt," he challenged.

"Some warning would not be unwelcome," she replied haughtily. "We were just about to have lunch, but your brother and his wife went missing from the party." Raoul flinched at her pointed use of their relationship, but she paid no heed to his obvious distaste. "You are welcome to join us."

"You cannot be in earnest, Aunt? Not after all that I have told you," Raoul said incredulously.

She sighed, "We will not have this discussion again. Christine, my dear," she gestured for the younger woman to come forward, which she did with a worried glance back to Erik. "Walk with me to the dining room." the Baroness said linking their arms. "My nephews need to have a private conversation, and I suspect that it will not go well if you are present."

Christine looked at the Baroness in utter bewilderment, and Raoul thought that perhaps his aunt really _had_ gone completely mad.

The Persian fellow quickly cleared his throat and warned, "Madame, I think that it will go even worse if she is not present."

"Then I trust you to see that it does not, Monsieur Kahn," she commanded.

"Madame, please," begged Christine as she attempted to disengage her arm from the Baroness's iron grip. Worry radiated from her, and Raoul felt another wave of anger crash over him.

"Hush, child," the older woman said sternly. "It must be done. They are brothers."

With that final comment, the Baroness pulled Christine from the room, and the Persian stepped inside, quietly closing the door. He took a sentinel's position there, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling his dark gaze upon the two men without a word. For the first time since entering the room, a tingle of real fear raced down Raoul's spine. The man at the door…Monsieur Kahn, his aunt had said…could have no compassion for him. She had left him outnumbered for a family reunion in which he had no desire to be a participant.

"Daroga," Erik said in exasperation, "open the damned door."

The Persian lifted a brow. "You heard your aunt, Erik. I am here only to ensure that you do not spill any blood on her beautiful floors."

Raoul chanced a look at his _brother_, seeing the displeasure evident on the man's face at being forced into this confrontation by their overbearing aunt. They glared at one another from opposite sides of the room, and Raoul unexpectedly found himself studying Erik's features. He had seen precious little of the man in Paris. The first glimpse of him had been in the cemetery, and the swordplay between them had been too fast and furious to take notice of any details of the Phantom's appearance, other than the bone white mask.

The man had been even more disguised at the _Bal Masque_, and during the performance of _Don Juan Triumphante_, his presence on the stage had been mostly obscured by the costume and the gaslights. Then Christine had ripped away the mask, and…well, after that Raoul had only seen the disfigurement. Fear and exhaustion, and a decided lack of oxygen, had colored his vision in that wretched sewer that the Phantom had called home, but now he could not help noticing the striking resemblance that Erik bore to his father…_their _father.

Michel de Chagny had already lived forty-eight years by the time that Raoul had been born, and he'd had the look of a man far older. His weathered face had been lined with wrinkles, his hair shock white and thinning, and a full beard had covered his face. He had looked nothing like the portrait that hung in the library of the Chateau de Chagny, or the few old Daguerreotypes that Raoul had seen. Philippe had always born a marked resemblance to those images of their father, but not nearly so much as the man before him now, even with half of his face obscured by the mask that he wore.

_How could I have been so blind_? he wondered.

Several tense moments of silence passed between the two men as they each waited for the other to strike first. Finally, Raoul said in a deceptively mild tone, "You have managed to gain our aunt's support with very little effort."

xXx

Erik felt the urge to ring the little pup's neck, but he battled back the instinct to attack, knowing that, even should the Daroga allow him to kill the boy, the action would surely destroy every hard earned moment of his fragile happiness. Though he managed to keep his hands in check, he could not hope to silence his acidic tongue.

"Little effort," he scoffed. "Only more than thirty years of pain and suffering inflicted by the hand of our _dear_ _father_."

Erik expected that the boy would rise to his bait, and puff out his chest with airs of righteous indignation in defense of his family honor, but he only shrugged and said, "I will not defend him."

The younger man's indifference took Erik by surprise, and he said nothing for a long moment as he contemplated the possibility that Raoul de Chagny might have shed some of his tendency toward foolish heroics. Then again, the boy had come to Venice in search of the Phantom, so his intelligence was still very much in question.

It would be so easy for Erik to slip back into that persona by unleashing all of his anger and contempt upon the man before him, but he had struggled for too long to bury the ghost and he would not give the Vicomte the satisfaction of unearthing his deadly nature.

"I do not like you, Vicomte," he finally said, "and you do not like me. We are both aware of this simple truth and the probability that it will never be altered., just as we are both aware that our dislike has been born solely of one reason."

"Christine," Raoul completed.

"_My wife_," Erik growled possessively, thumping a fist against his chest and taking an unconscious step forward.

"You need not remind of the fact," the younger man argued. "Christine has made her choice clear enough to me."

The tingle of victory could not be suppressed, and Erik grinned smugly, taunting, "It bothers you, does it not, boy? To know that she is _mine_? That _I _have been given what you were denied!"

Erik watched the Vicomte's face contort in anger…a rather unattractive vision; he would have to keep a mental image of it…as the boy took several dangerous steps forward in a feeble attempt to appear threatening. "Yes, _damn you_," Raoul shouted. Erik was conscious of Nadir straightening at the door, ready to intercede, but he paid the man no heed, remaining focused on the Vicomte's inelegant rant. "She promised me! I offered her _everything_, and she threw it all back in my face! You lied to her at every turn, hurt everyone around her, and still she could not turn from you!"

The Vicomte's words affected Erik more deeply than he revealed in his outward appearance, so closely did they reflect his own thoughts in those first months after Christine had left him. _He _had given her _everything _as well, only to have it seemingly tossed away without care. Yet she had returned to him, leaving the man before him to taste the same bitterness that Erik had feasted upon for years. For the first time, he felt an unwanted thread of compassion for the boy.

"You gave her everything that you could," Erik admitted, "but you could not give her what she needed."

Raoul flinched at the painful reminder that he had never possessed the ability to make Christine's soul take wing. "I loved her," he whispered helplessly.

"I know," Erik heard himself say without malice. "As did I. As will I always."

xXx

Raoul had tried so hard to convince himself that Erik could have no human emotions, far easier that way to hate him. If the Phantom had only been obsessed with Christine's voice, or her youth, or her beauty, then the attachment between them surely would have crumbled into dust long before now. The man could not even leave him with those poor delusions.

He felt his righteous anger begin to drain away, leaving him completely empty. He could no longer deny the truth of what he had seen with his own eyes. Erik had loved Christine enough to let her go on that long ago night, and still, she had freely returned to him. She had never truly belonged to Raoul; he had only ever been a brief shelter in the storm of her youthful emotions.

_She was never mine_, he thought brokenly, not realizing that he had spoken the words out loud.

"You love her still," queried Erik flatly, devoid of the accusation and threats that Raoul had come to expect from the man.

_The **man**_, he realized. _Erik Villon…no longer the Phantom. Is this what Christine has done for him?_

"I do," Raoul finally confessed as he fully met his brother's eyes, "but I know that it can never be." He could taste the sour sting of tears, but refused to show such weakness in front of Erik. "Christine has only ever been _in love _with one of us. I learned that lesson long ago, and you need have no fear that I shall repeat it."

"I do not, Vicomte," he said in an unexpectedly pleasant tone, "but it is reassuring to hear that I will not need to upset the Baroness by doing you bodily harm."

The Persian chuckled from his post, and Raoul restrained himself from commenting, sensing that the remark just may be what passed as an attempt at humor for Erik.

"You will give our aunt my apologies," he managed to say, "but I do not think that I will be able to stay for lunch."

"Of course," Erik said.

"Do you intend to remain in Paris?" The man's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Raoul was quick to add, "I only ask because my…_our_…sister, Élise, may wish to meet you."

Erik swallowed convulsively at the mention of a sister, and a tiny muscle began to throb in his visible cheek. Raoul suppressed the urge to warn the man that Élise may prove a difficult introduction. She had not been at all happy to discover all the subterfuge that had gone on behind her back, and the prospect of being related to a man with Erik's history had pleased her even less. She was not yet even certain that she wished to meet with their newly discovered brother, and were she to do so, she was more likely to attack him than welcome him.

"We shall remain for a few days, at least," Erik finally conceded.

"Very well," Raoul said and turned toward the door only to encounter the Persian. He raised a brow in silent demand for exit, and the man only grinned, revealing his perfect white teeth.

"Raoul," Erik said, and the younger man started, turning at the sound of his given name passing Erik's lips for the first time. "We will, of course, never speak of this conversation again."

"Of course," Raoul agreed, "Erik."

His brother chuckled lowly, and Raoul turned back to see the door open and the Persian standing aside. As he passed by, the man bowed and bid, "Good day, Monsieur le Vicomte."

Raoul de Chagny had never been so glad to leave a room in his life.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry, no bloodshed. Erik has suddenly found himself in a position of power, having everything to lose by succumbing to his darker urges, so he doesn't attack Raoul…but Erik being Erik still enjoys taunting the boy with the fact that he has won Christine's love. 

Thanks for the continued feedback.


	20. Your Secret

**Your Secret**

The Baroness d'Amboise had all but dragged Christine from the salon and into the dining room. All the while, the younger woman begged, "Please, Madame, you must allow me to go back."

"They are grown men, they do not need us women interfering in their business."

Christine paced agitatedly into the dining room, shaking her head and worriedly wringing her hands. She could not escape the memories of the last time that Raoul and Erik had been in the same room. How could the Baroness be so impossibly shortsighted? "You do not know what they are capable of doing to one another!"

The Baroness turned to her with narrowed eyes, "Which of my nephews are you most concerned for?"

Christine gasped in surprise, although she could not say that the question came a surprise. After all, the last time that the Baroness had seen her, she had been wearing a sodden wedding gown and clinging to Raoul's arm, and now she was married to Erik. Yet she had hoped, with all that had passed in the last few hours, that she might have been accepted as Erik's wife.

"I love my husband," she insisted passionately.

The woman smiled thinly, "You once claimed to love Raoul."

Christine could hardly deny it, but she felt her temper spark at the unwelcome reminder. To cower before the Baroness now would do her husband no credit, so she squared her shoulders and fearlessly met the woman's questioning gaze. "I loved him as a child, but I love Erik as a woman."

The Baroness nodded, "This I can see." She gestured to one of the matching carved chairs around the elegant, polished table. "Please sit, Christine." Biting off the urge to refuse like a petulant child, Christine primly seated herself. The Baroness took the adjacent chair and folded her hands upon the table. "I do not mean to attack you, my dear, but the situation is…unusual, at best."

"You hate that I have married Erik," Christine said with downcast eyes. Tears were threatening again, and she cursed her precarious emotions.

"No," the woman said earnestly, "far from it. I am glad that he has found a woman capable of loving him despite his past…and his misfortunes."

Christine looked up at the Baroness, searching for some sign that the woman may be attempting to placate her, but she could find none. What she did see, however, twisted her heart. "You blame me for it…the opera house…Raoul."

The Baroness sighed, "Blame is a strong word, and my nephews have their share of it, but it cannot be denied that you were at the center of the tragedy. I…worry that it may happen again."

"It will not," Christine insisted. "Erik and I have battled those demons. I made my choice when I broke my engagement to Raoul, and I have no regrets."

"He is still in love with you, you know?"

Christine flinched, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Raoul? No, you must be mistaken."

"I am not," the Baroness said. "He denies it, but it is there in his eyes. He knows it is a fruitless love, and perhaps, in many ways, it is a childish one as well, but he has as yet been unable to move on from it."

Christine felt ill at the revelation. Raoul had insisted in Venice that he no longer had any romantic intentions regarding her, and she had been relieved by his confession, grateful to be released from the guilt of leaving him heartbroken. Now the guilt returned, magnified a hundredfold by the fact that she was married to his own brother.

"I confess to thinking that it might have been far simpler if you had not managed to find your way back to Erik," the woman continued, "but then Erik might have been less willing to accept all of this…his family…were it not for your love. In any case, you are my nephew's wife, and therefore my niece, and you must be as welcome in my home as he will be."

"Forgive me, Madame, but I was not welcomed as Raoul's fiancée," Christine said moodily.

The Baroness seemed to startle at that, a deep frown marring her features. "Of course you were, my dear. I'll not deny that I believed the match to be ill advised in light of your obvious differences, but had you truly loved Raoul enough to sacrifice your own desires for his, then I would have supported your marriage without question." The woman looked at Christine pointedly, and said, "But it was not to be. You were obviously meant for Erik, and I will not interfere in your lives," she smiled wanly and added, "overmuch."

Christine nodded slowly, forced to accept the woman's words at face value. "I must thank you for being so kind to Erik, Madame," she finally said. "So few would under the circumstances."

"The De Chagny family is hardly above reproach, Christine," said the Baroness. " My foolish brother made a mess of everything. While I cannot forgive him for his grievous misdeeds against Régine and Erik, I am forced to understand that he could not see past his own grief to the irrevocable mistake that he was making. I would not tell Erik this, for I doubt that he would care to hear it yet, but I believe that Michel suffered greatly in his later years for his actions. Though he eventually married again, it was never a love match. He had been lonely, and his second wife, Hélène, had reached that age when marriage becomes more a matter of security than any real attachment. I suppose that they were comfortable enough together, but they shared neither the passion nor the affection that had existed between Michel and Régine. He had become a hard man by then, even more so than he had been in his youth. If his pain and guilt made him so, then I cannot begin to imagine what a lifetime of it must do to a man. No wonder Erik has struggled so."

"That time is over now, Madame," Christine insisted. "Erik has made a good life for himself."

The Baroness nodded in agreement. "So I have discovered, and do not make the mistake of believing that I have not done my research in these last weeks," she told Christine bluntly. "By all accounts, Erik Villon has shed the remnants of his questionable past and become a successful architect. He is in possession of a respectable reputation, more than one very loyal friend, a beautiful young wife, and perhaps," she said with a shrewd look, "soon an heir, I think."

Christine inhaled sharply and dropped her eyes to the table, blushing deeply under the weight of the woman's knowing gaze. Her hand fluttered again to rest protectively over her womb. The Baroness had been studying her with interest from the moment that she had entered the townhouse, and now it was clear that Erik's aunt had easily guessed the secret that she had so closely guarded. Christine had not been certain herself for very long, though in retrospect, she knew that she should have been. The signs had been there for months now, but she had been too caught up in the whirlwind tumbling her life to notice.

The first weeks had passed in the wonder of her new marriage and the vigorous rehearsal schedule for _La Fenice's _summer season. Her rolling emotions and increasing weariness had been easily attributed to the demands of a Prima Donna and the melancholy of so often being without Erik whilst his business in Milan took precedence.

Then there had been Raoul's unexpected reappearance and the shocking news that he had brought with him. Christine had fainted dead away for only the second time in her life…and really who could have blamed her either time…and again thought the stress of the situation to be responsible for her nausea and dizziness.

The last several weeks had been filled with her husband's volatile moods and her own worried agitation, and none of the continuing symptoms had been able to penetrate her clouded mind. Erik had barely been able to touch her for his own restlessness, and she had been so miserable that she had never even noticed her ripening figure.

Only after her dresser at the opera had commented on her costume needing to be let out a bit before her final performances had Christine become aware that she was increasing. She well remembered the wild fluttering of her heart as her mind had raced back over the months in a struggle to recall her last cycle, only to come up empty. She had stared at herself in the mirror for a very long time after the revelation, taking note of the subtle changes in her body and trying to imagine the ones yet to come.

Delight had suffused her being at the thought of Erik's child within her, and then she had remembered Erik himself. Her good spirits had plummeted at the realization that her husband would not think her condition to be the blessing that she believed it to be. Christine had yet to tell him for that very reason, praying that this trip to Paris and his discovery of his heritage might alleviate some of his fears. She doubted that such a thing had occurred, and now she was terrified that, having learned the tragic fate that had befallen his mother, coupled with the knowledge that her own mother had suffered the same end, her husband would be even more adamantly opposed to bringing a new life into the world.

Yet it was already too late. She would bear his child in less than half a year's time.

And the Baroness had discerned that fact without a word being spoken.

"You need not be so shy, my dear," Erik's aunt said kindly. "I may be a childless old widow, but I have attended to my share of women who are _enceinte_. You have the look about you, and the mannerisms. Am I correct?"

"Yes," Christine whispered, still refusing to raise her eyes from the table.

"And my nephew remains unaware," she said with a knowing smile.

"Yes," Christine said again, finally lifting her gaze.

The Baroness's smile bloomed fuller, and years melted from her face. "A De Chagny heir," she whispered happily. "Well," she laughed, "a legitimate one, at any rate. Have you any idea when?"

Christine found herself smiling despite her nervousness. "Before the spring," she said. "Sometime in February, I think."

"And you are well?"

"Perfectly," and her smile slipped slightly as worry settled in once again.

The older woman noticed, and she asked, "You are concerned about the child. That he will somehow inherit his father's defect."

"No," Christine said without hesitation, "I cannot be concerned with our child's appearance when my heart is already so completely filled by its very existence…but Erik," she trailed off helplessly.

"Ah, I see," the Baroness said. "I wish I could assure you both that all will be well, but that is beyond anyone's capability."

"I know. I only hope that Erik will be able to accept whatever the future holds for us."

"He will have little choice in the matter."

And that is precisely what worried Christine. Erik had yet to fully release his need to control everything around him. He did not trust easily, nor love easily, and now she must ask him to do both. Listening to the Baroness relay the story of Michel and Régine de Chagny, Christine had been struck by the similarities between Erik and the man who had sired him. It frightened her to think of what her husband might do were anything to happen to her.

"I can promise you, however," the Baroness added, "that my nephew will never again be without his family."

Christine managed to smile at that, knowing it to be true. Erik had a family now…beyond herself, and even the child that she carried. He had an aunt who seemed to have welcomed him, even if his brother and sister likely never would.

_A brother, _she remembered in a sudden panic, _dear God, how could I have forgotten?_

"Madame," Christine rasped, "we must go and check on them at once." She stood quickly, her chair scraping against the hardwood floor, and she spun around only to encounter her husband's chest. "Erik," she cried as she flung her arms around his neck.

He chuckled into her hair, "You were not worried for me, were you, mon ange?"

She drew back to look at his beloved face, and she wondered at his good humor. Indeed, she had not seen him look quite so relaxed in weeks, and she questioned the fate that had befallen poor Raoul.

Apparently, so had the Baroness, as she immediately asked, "Where is your brother?"

Erik smiled thinly. "He sends his regrets that he cannot join us for lunch."

"Erik," Christine said softly, "please tell me that you did not do anything foolish."

He laughed, "As if I would." She only raised a brow at him, and he shook his head. "Really, Christine, do you have so little faith in me? Raoul and I have come to an understanding of sorts. Expecting us to share a meal really would be asking too much."

The Baroness sat back and nodded approvingly, saying, "All things in their own time."

Erik grinned in earnest. "Now what have you two ladies been discussing in my absence?"

Christine felt herself blush again, and was grateful when Nadir jovially slapped Erik on the back and laughed, "Now Erik, my friend, do you not know any better than to ask a lady that? They were discussing you, of course."

Erik glared at the Persian, but it held no malice, and soon he was smiling again as he helped Christine back into her chair. When he settled next to her, a sudden thought struck Christine with such force that her hand froze over her water goblet, and she turned to her husband with a sharp look. "Erik, you called him _Raoul_."

Nadir snorted once, then burst out laughing, and Erik dropped his eyes to the table, mumbling, "It is his name, after all."

The Baroness sat perplexed at the entire exchange, and Christine grinned as an almost giddy feeling of hope overcame her.

Surely it was a day for miracles.

Perhaps tonight she could share hers with Erik.

* * *

**A/N: **Many of you had already figured that development out…there has been much foreshadowing and many little hints sprinkled about since about chapter nine. Poor Christine has been on an emotional roller coaster for months, and those hormones certainly haven't been helping. Now she has to worry about how Erik will react to the news. 

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed.


	21. Somewhere Inside

**Somewhere Inside**

The dusky hues of evening had begun to fall over Paris by the time that Erik and Christine finally returned to their room at the Hôtel de Crillon. The day had been long, but the tumultuous emotions and painful confessions of the morning had finally given way to an almost pleasant afternoon. The luncheon conversation had been stilted at first, with Erik remaining somewhat sullen after the humor shared at his expense. In truth, he had been brooding over the fact that he had somehow begun to think of _the boy_ in less disparaging terms.

Christine had once told him that the Vicomte's only sin had been in loving her, and Erik was forced now to confess that her words were true. Both men had loved her beyond reason. Erik had been willing to kill for her, and Raoul willing to die, yet neither of them had ever really stopped to consider Christine's feelings through their own conflict. Even had the Phantom been capable of civility upon the Vicomte's arrival at the Opera Populáire, he and her young paramour would still have come to blows over her love, though admittedly, with less catastrophic results. He vaguely wondered how events would have played out had the discovery of his relationship to the boy been made earlier.

During the course of the meal, Nadir and the Baroness had spoken eloquently about the paintings in her salon, and Erik had been surprised at how knowledgeable the Persian proved to be on the subject. Christine had remained strangely quiet throughout, every so often smiling distractedly at some comment or another. Eventually, his own opinions would not remain silent, and he had been forced to abandon his introspection and join into the discussion. His aunt had proven to be a fascinating woman, and he had allowed his natural curiosity about her to surface.

Anne-Marie de Chagny d'Amboise was an enigma. She made no pretense of the fact that she knew all there was to know regarding Erik's reign as the Phantom, and yet she welcomed him into her home, her very family, without hesitation. Indeed, she would brook no opposition in her single minded determination to legitimize him in Parisian society.

With intent to further persuade him to her cause, she had produced an old Daguerreotype of his parents, and Erik had scarcely been able to tear his eyes from the faded image. He had taken note of the Comte de Chagny's appearance, of course, but in a detached, scientific way; cataloging features and mentally comparing them to those which he saw each day in his own despised mirror. It was the Comtesse that he had not been able to look away from. His mother had been a small, delicate looking woman with a sweet, tender smile upon her lovely face. Seated next to her standing husband, she had truly seemed to be overwhelmed by his presence, but she remained utterly beautiful to Erik's eyes.

The Baroness had seemed to sense his hunger for details about the woman who had borne him, and she had told him more stories of the youthful Régine de Chagny, nee Eriksson. Apparently, the woman had been extremely clever by any standards, though, being of the fairer sex, she had not been at liberty to pursue her education beyond the shallow subjects deemed proper by society for young ladies to be versed in. How tedious it must have been to learn etiquette and embroidery while young men were encouraged to study science, history, astronomy…anything that their hearts could desire to know.

Yet, according to the Baroness, Régine had been encouraged by her father to glean whatever knowledge that she so craved, regardless of its supposed unsuitability for a young lady. Erik began to suspect that his above average intelligence may have been a trait inherited from his mother's family.

No doubt, his less than exemplary traits had been inherited from his father. Erik could care nothing for the man who had sired him. Michel de Chagny had done nothing in his pathetic life worthy of earning any consideration from his disinherited son. The Baroness was another matter entirely, and Erik could not help feeling respect for her. Whilst his mother had slipped into the role of a meek, aristocratic wife, the Baroness had used her position to stand strong at her husband's side. Yet for all her wealth and power, Erik suspected that she had suffered a great deal of pain in her own life.

Her frivolous youth, as she had called it, had melted away upon her marriage to the Baron d'Amboise, and she had been awakened to a world that she had before held little interest in. Politics, philosophy and the sciences had taken precedence over art, music and social niceties. Hospitals had replaced salons as the place to be, and the Baroness had devoted much of her time and energies to charity work. With such endeavors, she had established her own connections in Paris, even without her husband's not inconsiderable influence.

From what little she had said about the man, Erik had been able to ascertain that her marriage had been very much a love match. The political benefits to the De Chagny family had been merely an added incentive. Yet their happiness together had been forever shadowed by her inability to deliver a healthy heir to her husband…even as her own brother had thrown one away for the imperfection of his face.

The Baroness had already decreed that Erik would not be allowed to, in her own words, _slink off into the shadows and ignore his aunt_. Now that she had met him, she was even more eager to establish a connection. The woman had been forced to stand over the graves of her dearest friend, her brother, her beloved husband…and most recently her oldest nephew. Little wonder that she was determined to gather what remained of her family close to her now, even one so undesirable as Erik must certainly be. Perhaps he was mad…well, more so than usual…but deep down, he was greedy for what she was offering. His mind was swimming with the knowledge that he had an aunt who was unashamed to claim him. She would likely be the only one to do so, but it was far more than he had expected upon his return to Paris.

He had a sister whom he had yet to even lay eyes upon, but the Baroness had warned him that Élise may not be so kind in her welcome, and Christine's displeasure upon hearing the other woman's name had been evident. Erik held no expectations for a joyful family reunion, and he imagined that Élise would likely satisfy her morbid curiosity and run back to her ignorant little life with her husband to hide away in denial.

He knew that he would never establish a relationship with his _brother_ beyond the barely civil exchange that they had shared earlier in the day, and even _that_ had required the presence of the Daroga lest the confrontation degenerate into violence. Erik might have no longer felt the immediate urge to murder Raoul de Chagny, but that did not mean he was ready to declare a truce. Perhaps, if they were both very lucky, they might be able to coexist with stubborn avoidance of one another.

Erik had known of Philippe de Chagny only through the man's indiscretions at the opera house with Giuliana Sorelli. The prima ballerina's reason for leaving Paris so many years ago had been easily discerned by the older ballet rats, and their whispered gossip had floated through the walls of his domain. At the time, Erik had been entirely unconcerned with such affairs, focused as he had been on the newest arrival to the dormitories...Christine. Now he had a curious notion to visit Rome for just a glimpse of the child that was _his niece_.

_Uncle Erik, how absurd!_

He laughed aloud at the direction in which his wayward thoughts had traveled, and Christine, who had been engaged in the task of unpinning her hair at the vanity, looked at him queerly, asking, "What do you find so amusing, Erik?"

xXx

Christine was mildly surprised to see her husband's mirth after such a trying day. He had smiled so rarely in the past weeks, and the return of his good spirits made her heart sing. She found herself smiling in return as she watched his graceful movements in the mirror. Tugging loose his cravat, Erik came to stand behind her and met her eyes in the glass. Grinning, he said, "I was only reflecting upon the idea that _I_ could somehow become a domesticated family man." He chuckled at his own jest, and gave a dismissive little shake of his head. "Can you even imagine?"

She _could _imagine very clearly. Indeed, she had been imagining little else for quite some time now. Her stomach flipped at Erik's careless words, its nervous flutters making her feel slightly ill (again) and the smile upon her lips began to tremble at the corners until it crumbled completely. "Erik…I," she began, and then lost her courage at the sight of his relaxed features. Inhaling unsteadily, she asked, "Do you truly find the notion so disdainful?"

He chuckled again, resting one hand upon her shoulder as he began to gently comb his fingers through her riotous curls. "I find it near to impossible," he said. "Perhaps I may consider further exploring my relation to the Baroness, but as for the rest," he shrugged, "I care little for any family ties beyond those which I have made for myself."

Christine dropped her gaze away from his, quietly whispering, "That _we_ have made, Erik."

"Mmm, yes," he muttered absently, still toying with her hair, "of course." He clearly did not understand her full meaning, and her eyes fell closed. How could it be that a virtual stranger could guess the truth within moments, but her own husband remained stubbornly blind? She drew a fortifying breath as she attempted to gather the nerve to confess her secret, but before she could give it voice, she felt Erik lean down to press a chaste kiss against her cheek. "Let us speak no more of this subject tonight, my dear," he said. "The day has been long and I suspect that we are both exhausted." He straightened away from her and turned his attention back to shedding his formal attire.

At his casual dismissal of the subject, Christine felt the sting of tears begin to choke her and she struggled to hold them back, not wishing to alert Erik to her distress. Such joyful news should not be so difficult to impart. A shuddering breath escaped her unbidden, and her husband's attention was immediately captured. At first, she remained unaware of his questioning eyes upon her, sitting as she was with her gaze locked onto the wood grain patterns atop the vanity, but then she felt his hesitant touch against her hands where they rested protectively over her abdomen.

"Christine," came his rasped voice, and her eyes flew up to lock with his. He had moved soundlessly to kneel beside her with his face full of worry and dread. Brokenly, he asked, "The family that…_we_…have _made_?"

"Yes," she whispered with a trembling smile, moving one of her hands over his to press it closer.

His gaze fell to their enjoined hands for just a moment before snapping back to her face with fear and disbelief blazing. He roughly withdrew the comfort of his touch and quickly stood. "No," he said flatly, "you must be mistaken."

Those burning eyes were silently pleading with her to release him from this burden, to tell him that she _was _mistaken, and her heart began to break. Feeling far too vulnerable with him towering above her, she slowly straightened from her chair to stand before him. "I am not. A doctor has confirmed it."

"When?" he demanded on a growl.

She averted her eyes in shame, softly confessing, "Before we left Venice."

"And you failed to tell me!"

His entire form was vibrating with leashed anger, and Christine resisted the urge to shrink away from him. This was one battle that she could not…_would not_…forfeit. "I…I was hoping," she began impotently. _Hoping that you would be as happy as I am. _"Oh, Erik…" She reached out in a fruitless attempt to rest her palm along his cheek and force a connection between them, but he drew back sharply.

"No," he said weakly, turning away from her with resolve and pacing to the window. Christine pulled back her trembling, outstretched hand and pressed it to her lips to stifle her sobs. Her heart shattered fully into useless little pieces at her husband's feet, and tears streamed unchecked over her face. Only one thought could penetrate the numbness that settled over her.

Erik had rejected her…and their child.

* * *

**A/N: **Another cliffhanger. Even worse...I am taking a much needed vacation over the next several days, and will be away from a computer. Hopefully, I will be able to post either Wednesday or Thursday. 

Not very many more chapters remain before the conclusion. As always, I thank you for reading and reviewing.

-pzp


	22. In the Mirror

**In the Mirror**

_A child? _

Erik stared blindly out the window over the Champs-Élysées while the word reverberated inside his mind. He had always prided himself on his intellect, yet he could not seem to properly process the meaning of that one, simple syllable. Perhaps he would have better luck with a full sentence.

_The family that __**we **__have made. _

He had nearly remained oblivious in the face of Christine's quiet declaration, but once the words had fully registered, he had been incapable of escaping them. Her quiet sob and defeated posture had amplified the phrase until he could hear nothing else. The flickering gaslights on the avenue below danced before his eyes until he was dizzy. His body was strung so tightly with tension that a frisson burned through his muscles. Fear and anger churned in his stomach, fear for Christine…fear for the _child_…and anger at himself for allowing this to happen.

He had not been ignorant to the possibility, of course, but he had hoped that he would never need to face the reality. The handful of times that Christine had been brave enough broach the subject of beginning a family had resulted in unpleasant conversations that Erik had been quick to terminate, and would have preferred to avoid entirely. She simply would not validate his concerns for her own selfish want of a child. In truth, his own wants were not so very far from hers, but in this one thing, he had always understood that what he wanted and what he should have were two very different things.

She had vowed to him her unconditional love again and again, and Erik did not question that she was capable of feeling such emotion. After all, she had given her heart to him without reserve despite all of his past actions that, by all rights, should have destroyed her tender feelings. No, he could not doubt Christine's heart. It was the rest of the world that concerned him.

His life had been a living hell from the moment of his birth, filled with countless rejections and contempt from those who could not accept his appearance. Madeline had been only the first of many who had made it clear that he had not been meant to walk amongst the masses. How could he condemn an innocent child to share that same fate?

_Yet an innocent child I will soon have entrusted to my unworthy care. Oh, Christine…why?_

Erik could feel his wife staring helplessly at his back, knew that she was weeping over his joyless reaction to her news, but he could not yet master his own emotions enough to offer her any comfort. He knew exactly what Christine had been hoping in her continued silence regarding her condition…that his fears would have been assuaged by the revelation that his deformity had not been a curse in his bloodline. Not a known one, at any rate, though the devil only knew how many other imperfect De Chagny heirs may have been locked away before Erik had been delivered into the world. Or perhaps his unfortunate fate had been passed to him through his mother's line. He would never know for certain.

The Baroness had been able to offer no guarantee that such an occurrence would not repeat, but even had she been able to do so, nothing could remove the other potential dangers that existed. His aunt's words had imparted upon him the understanding that there could be no assurances for anyone in life. His own parents had had no reason to suspect such a horror at his birth, though his mother's chances for survival had been precarious at best. Nor had Christine's parents anticipated that her joyous birth would bring such tragedy with the loss of her mother's life. How could he be expected to look upon this supposed _gift_ with anything other than fear and disdain, knowing what an unacceptable price might accompany its bestowment?

He could not bear to even think of losing Christine. Such an outcome unnerved him far more than the thought of a child with his own wretched features. His life would be meaningless without his angel. She _was_ his life, and she had given him so much already…now she was offering the fulfillment of another secret longing. Yet he could not escape the terror that overcame him as he imagined all that might go awry. He had been granted so many blessings in the past months. Did he deserve to hope for one more? Even should Christine's confinement be free of complications, he could not ignore his utter unsuitability as a father. How could a man with his violent and unstable past ever hope to care for a child?

_As if your selfish fears should matter more than your wife, _his conscience prodded.

Christine would have enough of a burden to bear in the coming months without adding his childish tantrums to her worries. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and glanced back over his shoulder to gaze at his wife. She stood with both arms wrapped protectively around her middle, as if she feared that he would somehow steal from her the precious life that she carried. Her breathing was jagged as she silently wept, and he felt his very soul twist in agony.

_I should not have upset her so in her delicate condition...whilst she carries our very future within her. _

_Our future… _

Without warning, the vision of a little girl with wide brown eyes and wild chestnut curls appeared in his mind, and the image was a visceral blow, sending the air rushing from his lungs. He could almost hear the echo of a child's soft laughter, happily calling out to her _papa_. A curious yearning uncoiled beneath his breast, pulling his body completely around and propelling him closer to his wife. Christine watched him warily as he approached, tears glistening upon her cheeks, and his heart gave another lurch at the knowledge that she was crying once again because of his thoughtless actions.

_How many times did my mother cry over Michel de Chagny? _

He was sickened by the idea that he could be so like the man who had sired him. Raising his unsteady hands, Erik brushed his fingers gently over Christine's beloved face. He was strangely unable to find his voice to speak, but it seemed that he did not need to, for she somehow understood. Relief flashed in her eyes before she fell trembling into his arms, clutching him desperately to her as she pressed her tear streaked face into his throat. He returned her embrace with equal fervor, wishing that he could keep her there and safe from every possible harm. He turned his face into her hair, pressing his lips against her temple and allowing her unique scent to soothe his raw emotions.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered raggedly, drawing back just far enough to search her dark eyes, "why did you not tell me sooner?"

"You have been so distant these last weeks," she answered quietly, "and I knew…I _know_…your feelings…I," she broke off, dropping her gaze to stare at the patch of skin where his shirt collar gaped open. "I want this, Erik…so very much."

He inhaled deeply, slowly releasing the breath with an uneven stutter of air. "I know, mon ange," he said as he gently cupped her chin and tilted her face up, forcing what he hoped passed for a smile, "and you know that I can deny you nothing that you want."

Erik refused to repeat the mistakes of Michel de Chagny, who had allowed his own fear to poison the woman that he had claimed to love when she had most needed his strength. He would learn to push his own worries aside for Christine's sake, and perhaps…just perhaps…Fate might grant him mercy once again.

xXx

Christine looked deeply into her husband's glittering eyes, trying to discern his true emotions, but his mask (as always) impeded her. She needed so badly to believe that he was truly accepting the precious miracle that they had created from their love. Gingerly tracing her fingers over the edge of the leather, she lifted it away, and he allowed the action, having finally ceased all attempts to stop her from this ritual. Removed from his cynical persona, she could see the fear and worry lining his countenance, but underneath, there flickered a tiny spark of hope. It was that on which she chose to focus, and she smiled in earnest.

"You have no reason to worry, my love," she promised him, knowing even as she said the words that they would do little to comfort Erik in these next months. "I am in perfect health, and your child is growing stronger each day," she moved his hand from where it rested upon her hip and pressed it firmly against her thickening waist, "and I am growing with him," she said with a wry smile.

Erik swallowed convulsively, his gaze dropping without volition to where his fingers flexed against her belly. His eyes fell closed and a shudder passed through him. "But you are well? All is as it should be?"

"Yes," she assured him. "Exactly as it should be, Erik."

He nodded imperceptibly, and Christine found herself once again in the circle of her husband's arms. He felt so warm and solid against her, and she melted into his form, allowing her dreams of the future to take wing. She was not still so naïve to believe that it would be easy…with Erik, nothing ever was…but she could so clearly see the happiness that they would find if only they could successfully traverse this uncertain path.

She could blissfully stay within his embrace forever. Raoul's reappearance in their lives had driven a wedge between them that she had yet to fully remove, and this journey to Paris had done little to dispel the growing anxiety that she had felt over Erik's withdrawal from her. They had only begun to grow closer once again in the last several days, and now that the final secret between them had been revealed at last, they could bury the past and concentrate fully on their future. A future that was suddenly so much brighter for the inclusion of the child that would soon join their lives.

"Christine," he whispered after a long moment, "are you certain," he began brokenly. "We cannot know," he tried again, "if the…child…will be," a harsh breath hissed from between his clenched teeth, "like me," he finished.

Her back stiffened and she jerked away from him, taking his face between her palms with determination. "But we know that he will be _our_ child, Erik," she insisted, "and he will know everyday of his life that he is loved. We will teach him to look beyond his mirror…even if he should be the most handsome child in the world."

Exhaling raggedly, Erik disengaged himself from Christine's touch, and she frowned. His expression had gone dark once again, and she watched him swallow heavily. He turned without a word and reached for the mask that she had only just discarded, staring at it intently before settling it firmly onto his face. Pressing his fingers against the leather, he closed his eyes and sighed.

"You should finish preparing for bed now, Christine," he murmured. "It has been a…difficult day."

"Erik, " she began, more than a little disconcerted by his abrupt change of subject.

"You must rest," he said firmly, opening his eyes and straightening his posture until his air of indifference had slipped back into place. He cupped her shoulders and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead before pacing to the door of their room. "I will leave you to that…only for a moment," he added in a rush to silence her obvious protest, "I find myself to be suddenly in need of air. Do not worry, my dear, I shall return shortly."

He was out of the door in the next heartbeat, and Christine felt as though her heart had gone with him. She stared dumbly at the empty space where her husband had disappeared from, feeling tears pool upon her lashes once again, but she refused to allow them to fall. Erik could brood all night if he so desired, she was exhausted beyond reason and simply did not possess the strength to argue his abandonment. Collapsing across the bed, she sent up a silent prayer that her husband would soon find his way back to her, free of whatever old demon that had suddenly possessed him.

His family needed him.

_No going back now._

* * *

**Interesting French Translation Note:  
**_Champs-__Él__ysées_ the Elysian Fields

* * *

**A/N: **A little bit of a meltdown there for Erik...but he pulled it together for Christine. 

Did you miss me? I thank you all for your patience during my nice, relaxing vacation, and I apologize for skipping the personal responses to the reviews this time around. I opted for posting the chapter. As always, I truly appreciate all the wonderful feedback.

A few of you mentioned that Christine was probably over reacting due to hormones...and that's not far off. We all know Erik needs time to process things like this. Even though she thought that she was prepared for his reaction, she still really wanted him to be as happy as she is.

Until next time.  
-pzp


	23. True Beauty

**True Beauty**

"Daroga! I know you are in there. Open this door at once!"

Erik rapped his fist furiously against the painted oak, mindless of the commotion that he was making. That useless Persian could not be asleep yet! Just as he was about to shout again, the door swung inward on well oiled hinges and Nadir stood before him looking irritated. "What in _Allah's_ name is wrong with you?"

Pushing roughly past the man, Erik barreled into the room and began to pace furiously, raking agitated fingers through his hair. "An entirely unforeseen complication," he growled, "How could I have been so careless? I have never before failed to calculate the risks…yet that woman continues to render me utterly incompetent…I have no control. No will of my own." Both his pacing and his rant came to an abrupt halt, and he turned to face his bewildered friend. "I have made such a mess, Daroga."

Nadir scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "Sit down." Erik mechanically obeyed the command, sinking into a nearby wingback chair, and Nadir seated himself as well, sighing, "What are you and your little wife arguing over this time?"

Erik glanced away, exhaling raggedly, he whispered, "A child."

Nadir sat speechless for a moment, and then he shook his head slightly, leaning forward in his chair. "Pardon me? I thought that I heard you say _a child_."

Erik dropped his head into his hands and slumped forward in defeat. "What am I to do, Nadir?"

"So that I understand completely," Nadir began slowly, "do you mean to say that Christine is…in a delicate condition?"

"Yes," Erik muttered, still not meeting the other man's eyes.

Nadir fell back against his chair. "You are to become a father?"

Head snapping up sharply, Erik glared at the Persian. "Have you gone deaf, old man, or just brainless?"

"Forgive me, my friend," said Nadir in dulcet tones, "but this does come as something of a surprise."

"_You_ are surprised! Imagine how _I _feel!"

A broad smile gradually spread across the Nadir's face, comprehension lighting his dark eyes, and he began to chuckle. "Really, Erik, with your _enthusiasm_ for marriage, you cannot have failed to consider the inevitable outcome."

"This is no laughing matter, Daroga," Erik growled. "You know that there are ways to prevent such outcomes from seeing fruition."

Nadir sobered suddenly, and with narrowed eyes, he accused, "You would not dare do such a thing to your wife."

Erik winced at the implication, his face paling for a moment before he felt his skin flame. "Not _that_, you suspicious bastard! I meant…the other," he broke off, hissing out a breath, "before," he attempted again, then waived a dismissive hand, "I refuse to speak of this with you," he finished with a scowl, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

Nadir snorted, and then quickly cleared his throat at Erik's glare. "And did you manage to attempt such methods?"

Erik said nothing, only turned his face to the right to present the Persian with an impassive mask. He knew that his attempts had been half-hearted at best. Christine's power over him was indisputable, and he could scarcely think at all when she gazed at him with that irresistible smile that invited all manner of wickedness.

Sighing again, Nadir asked, "How is Christine faring with the news?"

Erik looked back to the other man, shrugging faintly, he admitted, "Better than I. She is happy, Nadir, imagining a perfect future for the three of us."

The older man nodded, "And you are afraid that will not be the case."

"How can it be? You know what I am," Erik said brokenly.

"Yes, my friend," Nadir acknowledged softly, "I know who you are and what you have done. I also know what you _can _do…the bad and the good, and I _believe _that you can be a _good_ father."

Erik choked back a sob at his friend's heartfelt words. He so badly wanted to believe them, but, "I have only ever taken life."

"Well now you have created it, Erik," Nadir said impatiently, "and you must learn to nurture it. Accept it, and stop being such a jackass."

Erik stared silently at the man before him. Frowning, he grumbled, "You are a poor counselor, Daroga."

"I am your friend, Erik. You have never expected less than the truth from me, and I have never given it. Christine needs you with her now, not off brooding in some dark dungeon. I thought that you had moved past all of this when you married her."

"Merely side stepped," Erik muttered. "I have no idea what to do with a child."

The Persian rolled his eyes and grinned, "Erik, have you forgotten that Christine was no more than a child when you first took an interest in her?"

"That was entirely different," Erik insisted petulantly. "I was merely her teacher."

"Never merely that," Nadir reminded him before asking, "Will you not teach your own child?"

A clear image formed in Erik's mind of just such a scene, and his heart flipped over in his chest. He had taken such pride in the lessons that he had shared with Christine, and now he would be given the chance to do the same for his own child. "Of course," he heard himself say, and then, with the knot of dread in his stomach slowly untying, he promised, "I will teach her never to go near strange, detached voices claiming to be an angel."

Nadir laughed richly, and Erik felt an answering smile begin to pull at his lips. "A wise choice, I think," the Persian agreed, "but you might find that your wife will have some objections. She seems rather attached to her Angel of Music, and I suspect you will have to continue in the role for some time yet. Especially should your child inherit the combined talents of both mother and father."

Erik's mouth fell open in surprise. So focused had he been on the negative that he had failed to consider that a child born of his union with Christine would possess the potential for musical genius. His mind began to spin with the possibilities…a diva unsurpassed, a virtuoso upon any instrument, a composer… and he had to shake himself back to reality. He was certain that his eyes must be aglitter with an almost devious twinkle by the way in which Nadir watched him warily. "Yes," he finally murmured, "an angel of music."

The Persian stood then, placing a supportive hand upon Erik's shoulder. "You will do well, my friend. May I be the first to congratulate you on your good fortune." The he smiled and slapped Erik on the back. "Now go back to your wife and leave me be. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

Erik stood and mustered a scowl, "I wouldn't know, Daroga."

The Persian's laughter could be heard long after he had closed the door in Erik's face.

xXx

Christine awoke late in the night, or perhaps early in the morning, to the sensation of a warm hand rubbing slow circles against her silk covered belly. A dreamy smile curved her lips as she pressed her own hand over Erik's and turned her face toward him. The blackness of night permeating the room made it difficult to discern any details of his expression, but his presence beside her did much to ease her anxiety. He sighed softly, "I did not mean to wake you, mon ange."

A pleasant heat was blooming beneath his palm, and she shifted imperceptibly in an attempt to increase the sensation. "Your touch always rouses me," she whispered.

He chuckled lowly at her double entendre. "You are in need of rest, my dear."

"As are you," she reminded him. "Have you slept at all?"

She could almost make out the subtle rise of his shoulder. "Too many thoughts twisting into circles."

Her heart gave a tiny stumble as she imagined where his mind may have taken him. Much of her annoyance over his earlier disappearance had slipped away in light of the momentous revelations that Erik had been forced to deal with in the course of a single day. In retrospect, she supposed that she should have waited until they had both rested before imparting the knowledge that he would soon be a father. All things considered, she was grateful that he was here with her now, and seemingly in a more relaxed state than when last she had seen him.

"I wish that I could ease your mind," she said.

"That," he replied with humor in his voice, "is an impossible task. You have more important matters to attend than me."

"No, Erik," she insisted. "Nothing is more important to me than you."

He gently pressed his hand against her belly. "Not even this?"

"This," she stroked her fingers over his hand, "is _you _within me, my love. You and I made one. My love for our child was born from my love for you, and I will see that you _both _remain happy and well."

A long silent moment passed, and Christine wished that he had left a candle burning so that she could see his face. She took comfort in the fact that he had yet to move his hand away from its intimate position over their child. "You _have _made me happy, Christine," he said quietly. "Even with my…concerns, the thought of our child…pleases me very much," he whispered, and she felt her heart soar. "I cannot promise you with any certainty that I will always be a suitable husband…or…_father_…but I will put forth my best effort."

Sweet relief flooded through her at his words, and she turned in his arms to seek him out in the darkness. Her hand unerringly found his unmasked cheek and she whispered, "Oh, Erik, I love you."

"And I love you, mon ange," he echoed just before his lips found hers.

The kiss was achingly tender, no more than a caress meant to promise and comfort, but the weeks of distance between them had been too much to bear, and Christine drew him deeper. He seemed to hesitate at first, but she would not permit him to withdraw. Threading her fingers into his hair, she allowed her own needs to take precedence.

Finally drawing back, Erik rasped, "Your rest…"

"Is over, Erik," she said with determination. "Do not deny me."

"The child," he questioned softly.

"Is safe and will remain so," she promised. "You must have faith, my love."

"Oh, Christine," he whispered against her lips, and then captured them one again.

He pulled her closer, shifting their positions until he could touch her as he pleased, and his mouth began a familiar journey across her jaw and down her throat. Her silk nightgown loosened under his expert fingers and she moaned in pleasure as his curious hands began to reacquaint themselves with her body. She could not have imagined how acutely she would be affected by his attention after so many weeks of detached embraces. Trembling beneath him, she abandoned herself to the unexpected pleasures that he bestowed upon her sensitive skin.

Erik was thorough in their reunion, but so agonizingly slow and careful of her that Christine felt certain that she would go mad with desire. She vaguely wondered if such a wanton response was normal for a woman with child, and made a mental note to ask someone with such knowledge just before all ability for thought was lost to her completely.

xXx

_My wife. My child. My family._

The mantra repeated again and again in Erik's mind as his hands played along Christine's body. Though the room was dark, his night vision had always been exceptional, and the shuttered moonlight from the window cast a faint glow over her pale skin. He had memorized every facet of his wife, but now his eyes and hands were learning new curves, and his heart thundered in his ears at each discovery.

He gently brushed a finger along the fullness of her breast, and was rewarded with an almost guttural moan from Christine. Had he truly been so neglectful of his husbandly duties to have failed to notice such an obvious alteration in her figure? And a very agreeable one, at that. With careful patience, he explored her form, earning yet another moan accompanied by a breathless, "Please, Erik."

_My wife._

His hands drifted lower, once again tracing a reverent path across the delicate rise of her belly. She had kept the subtle changes well disguised beneath corsets…which she would _not_ be wearing any longer…and petticoats, but her waist was unquestionably thicker than it had been. He had never even noticed, but now his attention was completely captured by the slight evidence of the life that grew within her.

_My child. _

He was terrified of, and for, that life…worried for Christine…overwhelmed by the idea that _he_ would be a father. Yet all of his lingering doubts could not seem to kill the stubborn flame of hope that was burning in his heart. Erik feathered the softest of kisses to his wife's stomach just over the spot where his child slept.

_My family._

His eyes drifted up to gaze at Christine's blissful smile, and he once again thanked whatever power that had brought her into his life. Only in his most secret dreams had he imagined that he could one day be gifted with all that other men took for granted…an ordinary life, with a loving wife and children. He had so coveted these things in those around him, from Antoinette Giry's bond with her daughter, to Alonzo Rivaldi's loud, boisterous family and Sophia's brood of mischievous children constantly clamoring for magic tricks and stories. To think that he might now have that experience with his own children left him in awe.

He paused his adulation of his wife only long enough to shed his own remaining clothing. Slowly, tenderly, he wrapped Christine into his embrace and joined their bodies as one. Breathing his name like a prayer, she arched against him and surrendered herself to her pleasure, quickly pulling him under with the force of her passion.

xXx

Long minutes later…or perhaps hours, who could keep count?…Erik murmured in amazement, "How could I have failed to notice the change in you?"

Catching her breath, Christine smiled contentedly and reminded him, "You have been preoccupied as of late."

"I have been a blind fool."

"You are a man," she explained on a laugh, "Such things are bound to escape your notice."

"I assure you that I am noticing now," he said in awe. He rested his hand protectively over the curve of her belly, and whispered, "You are…blossoming, Christine."

"I am," she agreed happily, so eager to share this miracle with him, "and it is all because of you."

"Hmm…and I thought that it was due to your budding appreciation for Italian food."

Christine gasped indignantly, slapping his shoulder as she struggled to free herself from his arms. "Erik," she admonished, "what a horrible thing to say!"

Laughing, Erik successfully tucked her back against him, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Forgive me, mon ange," he begged. "I was only teasing. You are the most beautiful creature that I have ever beheld," he said with absolute sincerity.

"Mmm, much better, my love. You are forgiven," she said as she settled herself fully into his embrace. His good humor made her soul sing, so she could hardly be cross at his banter. "And I will have you know," she intoned with mock annoyance, "that it is _your _son who has developed a fondness for fine cuisine."

He chuckled again, "Your daughter, my dear."

Joyful tears sprang to her eyes at his acceptance, and she hugged him tightly. "Oh, Erik" she whispered, "just think of it…a house full of children."

"Please, Christine," he groaned, "one at a time."

"My poor angel, you know that you will never be able to resist me," she promised, and then proceeded to illustrate her point in exquisite detail.

* * *

**A/N: **Ah…the fluff returns in spades. I am sad to say that only one chapter and an epilogue remain. The plot is just about concluded, and I have never been one to drag out a story just for a reluctance to part with the characters. I thank you all for reading along with me. 

I am considering a series of short vignettes that would fit inside this story…little stand alone scenes that didn't really keep with the tone of _Too Long In Winter_, but I make no promises.


	24. Too Long You've Wandered

**Too Long You've Wandered**

The monument to Régine, Comtesse de Chagny, was set between two mausoleums in the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, one of which belonged to the De Chagny family, and the irony of its location did not fail to escape Erik. His mother's grave, it seemed, did not even merit inclusion within the sanctity of the crypt. The stone was worn with age, but neatly kept and recently adorned with flowers, no doubt by the hand of his aunt, the Baroness d'Amboise. The date inscribed upon the face of the marker was April 13, 1837. His birthday. Madeline had once let the significance of the cursed day slip past her spiteful, lying lips, and Erik well remembered her denial of his childish request for a simple birthday kiss. He numbly wondered if his true mother would have granted him such a gift had she lived.

His gaze drifted down, and he inhaled sharply at the sight that met his eyes. A sad, little stone lay peeking out from an overgrowth of weeds, freshly cut back by the look of it…yet another careful concession from the Baroness.

_It is a strange thing to see your own name upon a grave marker_.

Erik took some small comfort in the fact that he had never been recognized by the full moniker carved into the granite, though it seemed to make a mockery of his long ago preference for keeping a coffin in his lair…a fact that Christine remained blissfully ignorant to. Such morbid habits had suited the Opera Ghost, but that being was buried beneath the Opera Populáire.

Not for the first time since discovering his true parentage, he wondered what path his life might have taken had his so-called father been a better man. Would he have ended up another shallow aristocrat? Surely not, for his imperfect visage would have kept him very low indeed. He would likely have been hidden away just the same, only in a finer house with only maids and nurses made to suffer his horrid face.

Even a privileged upbringing could never have erased the stigma that had accompanied his deformity. Could the allure of his name and pocketbook have tempted some brave, young woman to his side despite his appearance? Christine would likely think it so, for he had lured her with no more than his voice.

And what of his beloved Christine? He would certainly never have been her Angel of Music. Or was it possible that he would have claimed the role even sooner? A summer in Perros-Guirec perhaps? He smiled softly to himself at the thought that Erik de Chagny might have been the one to rescue her red scarf from the sea instead of _the boy_. It did seem as though Fate had destined them to meet in some form or another. Who could say what might have been?

There were far too many questions that could never be answered, and far too much pain and misery to forgive. Yet despite all of it, or perhaps because of it, he stood here now with Christine at his side and the promise of a future before him.

"Where have your thoughts taken you, my love?"

Erik turned to his wife, laying his hand atop hers where it rested on his arm. "Dark places," he admitted, "but you've no need to worry. I have made my peace."

Christine smiled up at him. "I am glad to hear that, Erik."

He turned once more to look upon his mother's grave, and bid a silent farewell to the woman that he would never know but for stories from the Baroness. Sighing, he turned back to Christine and said, "Come, let us leave this dismal testament to the failures of Michel de Chagny. No doubt you are wanting to visit your father's grave, and it will not do to tarry too long in the chilled air."

"Erik, it is a perfectly beautiful day and the sun is quite warm," she said incredulously.

"But the wind has a bite to it, my dear."

"There is hardly more than a mild breeze," she argued.

"We must take no chances," he reasoned as he began to carefully lead her in the direction of the Daaé crypt.

She looked at him archly. "Will you be this protective of me for the whole of my confinement?"

"Christine, were I truly being protective," he said with measured calm, "you would be safely locked away in the hotel room right now instead of traipsing through this cemetery where you could easily trip on any manner of object."

"Erik," she exclaimed in exasperation, "I am not made of spun glass!"

He paused and turned to face her, gently laying his hands at her shoulders. "No, mon ange. You are far more precious." The thought that something may happen to take Christine away from him would not be silenced. His other fears were slowly falling away, defeated by his wife's infectious joy, but that one could not be reasoned with and he was determined to limit her exposure to any undue risk.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed. "You really mustn't worry so."

"It is my duty to worry," he insisted, then offered a half smile, "What else have I to do in these next months?"

Christine grinned and closed the scant distance between them, coiling her arms around his neck. "I suppose that I will simply have to keep you distracted," she said playfully.

"Hmm," he mumbled as his arms tightened around her, "distraction can be…good."

She placed a swift kiss to her husband's jaw and stepped out of his arms to resume their walk. Erik was at her side in an instant, securely tucking her arm into his once again. She shook her head at his diligence, but smiled softly in appreciation. "Perhaps you could write another opera."

"My last attempt was a rather abysmal disaster," he huffed.

"The circumstances made it so, but the opera itself was magnificent…if perhaps a bit beyond the grasp of its audience," she admitted. "I am certain that your work would be better received in Italy."

He chuckled at her determined support of his music. "I shall give it some thought," he said evasively. Christine had been attempting to guide him back into composing since their marriage, and the only thing that had prevented him from surrendering to her will had been his promise to Alonzo Rivaldi and his commitments in Milan. He simply hadn't the time. The last weeks spent brooding over his piano after discovering his heritage could not be counted, though they had borne a melody or two that might yet prove useful. His mind was humming with possibilities, and he confessed, "I've a few ideas, you know?"

"I imagined that you would," she said dryly.

Erik smiled to himself as he envisioned Christine upon the stage performing his music for the world to hear, and then he suddenly stopped walking. "Christine, your career!" He had failed to realize until that moment that his wife would be unable to perform in the coming seasons. "What will become of La Daaé?"

"She will enjoy a long holiday from the stage," Christine replied with a grin, assuring him, "I have no regrets, Erik. In time, perhaps, I will perform again, if _La Fenice _will have me back."

"Or _La Scala_," he offered with a calculating gleam in his eyes.

Christine narrowed her gaze on her husband. "I thought that you wished to stay in Venice."

The schemes that Erik had been imagining for his little diva were safely tucked away into the back of his mind, and he smiled pleasantly. "I wish to be wherever you are, mon ange. Venice, Milan, Paris…it makes little difference to me."

"Paris?" she asked skeptically. "You would return here permanently?"

"One day, perhaps," he said with a shrug. "Despite the feats that the Baroness claims she can achieve, I do not think that I will feel entirely safe in this city for quite some time, if ever."

"Nor I," Christine confessed, "though I have dearly missed Madame Giry and Meg. Do you think that they might visit Venice?"

"I believe that they might be persuaded."

"Yes," she placed a hand over her middle and grinned, "they will have an added incentive, after all."

Erik nodded in agreement. "As will Sophia, I suspect," he could not resist adding, "She will be happy to know that I have succeeded where she failed."

His wife's brow furrowed in charming confusion. "Succeeded at what?"

He grinned wickedly, pulling Christine into his arms. "Giving you some curves."

She scowled up at him with an irresistible pout. "You are gaining entirely too much enjoyment from that fact."

"As are you, mon ange," he drawled as he ran a hand over her hip, "or was I only dreaming this morning when…"

She quickly pressed her fingers to his lips to halt his words, even as her face flushed with heat. "Enough, Erik," she said through the smile that she could not suppress. Tracing his lower lip, she whispered, "This is no dream," and then kissed him tenderly.

"No," he agreed, "none of my dreams have ever been so sweet."

xXx

The lights of Paris were soon abandoned for the waterways of Venice, and Monsieur and Madame Villon, for Erik was still far from willing to claim the name De Chagny, returned to the comfort of their own home and the unassuming titles of Signor and Signora. Yet they could never return completely to the secluded little life that they had once enjoyed. Promises had been made to friends and family that would keep them mindful of the world beyond their personal haven.

Almost immediately upon retuning home, Christine had needed to visit _La Fenice _in order to speak with Leonardo Dellano. He had not been pleased to discover that his Prima Donna would be indisposed for an indeterminate amount of time, and he had been reluctant to part with her, but he'd had little choice in light of such a happy reason. He made no pretense of his desire to have her back upon his stage as soon as she felt able, and for that, Christine had been grateful. She was not entirely ready to leave her career behind, although she knew that her feelings might easily change once the babe had been born.

With her responsibilities to the theater temporarily relieved, Christine turned her energies to making a home for Erik and their growing family. They had been still in the process of settling into the Villa della Rosa before their lives had taken such an unexpected turn, and now they had the added task of establishing a nursery. Erik allowed his wife a free hand in this endeavor, albeit with much careful supervision to ensure that she undertook no activity that he deemed too strenuous for her _delicate_ condition.

Erik focused most of his attention on his wife, although he had to attend to several projects that he had sadly neglected during the summer months. One very brief visit to Milan had been required of him, during which he had been thankful to discover that Roberto Cipriano had finally developed a grasp of business practices, due in no small part to Isabella Rivaldi's influence. Christine had even shed a few happy tears when she had heard of the young couple's recent engagement, once again blaming her unpredictable emotions for the display, and Erik had been wise enough not to tease her.

Letters from the Baroness d'Amboise arrived monthly, and Erik diligently responded to each one. Although he would rarely admit it aloud, he had come to cherish the correspondence with his aunt. As expected, she had been the only De Chagny to welcome him. The woman had done her best to ease her nephew through an uncomfortable introduction to his sister, but Élise de Chagny Durand had entered the Baroness's salon prepared to hate Erik on sight. She had been coolly polite in her disdain, but the message had been received that the short, awkward meeting would never reoccur.

The steady presence of Antoinette Giry, however, would never again be far removed from the couple. She had been deprived of the chance to attend the wedding of her wayward charges, and she was not about to be denied the chance to attend the birth of their first child. The woman had not been at all surprised to learn of Christine's condition, and Erik had grumbled again about his own lack of perception. Antoinette and Meg had appeared on the doorstep of the Villa della Rosa just before the holidays, and while Meg had returned to France for a time to keep her commitments with the Paris Ballet, her mother had remained to offer much needed support to both Christine and Erik in the final months before the child's arrival.

The Girys had not been the only old friends to call upon Christine during her confinement. Sophia Miele had also managed a few brief escapes from her brood in Milan, and as Erik had predicted, the woman had been very pleased to see Christine's ever increasing curves. She had not been shy about relating the details of her own pregnancies to the younger woman, and while Erik had made himself blessedly scarce during those conversations, Christine had learned that all of her more…passionate…responses were, indeed, perfectly normal for a woman with child.

Life settled into a shade of normalcy for the couple in those months that was exceedingly sublime after such a tumultuous beginning. Erik remained maddeningly overprotective of his wife and unborn child, masking his fears when in her company and venting them to Nadir Kahn, and later Antoinette Giry, whenever they threatened to consume him. Happiness was still such an unknown state of being for him, and he remained ever attentive to its fragile presence in his life.

Christine embraced their joy with open arms, basking in the love of her husband and the bloom of pregnancy, and pleasantly tolerating every moment of Erik's adorable fussing. She was not blind to his lingering unease, nor was she entirely free of her own anxiety, but her faith was strong, and so was the life growing within her. She marveled in the changes that occurred with each new day, and so did her husband. His curious mind compelled him to observe each and every aspect of her pregnancy with utter fascination.

Nothing captivated him more than those moments when he would feel the persistent ripple of life beneath Christine's swollen flesh. With those first movements against his open palm, inspiration had taken hold of him with a determined grip and music had filled the house as never before. Gone was the darkness, the longing, the sadness and rage. Love and hope mated to form the sweetest of melodies…and a beautiful aria was born.

xXx

The seasons changed as they will, and soon the late winter once again beckoned the _Carnevale _to Venice. Young lovers in elaborate costumes filled the streets and canals in celebration, but none of the festivities taking place within the city could match the quiet elation that overflowed from the little garden behind the Villa della Rosa.

Two forms sat huddled together on a marble bench, wrapped in a heavy black cloak and staring up at the star filled twilight in anticipation of the fireworks that would soon paint the evening sky. Erik sighed contentedly as he hugged his beloved angel closer, murmuring, "Do you see that constellation, bel ange? That is Canis Major…the great dog, and that star just there," he pointed, "is Sirius. The brightest star in all of the heavens. Just as you are the brightest star upon the earth."

"Erik," came an amused voice from behind him, "I hardly think that she is ready for a lesson in astronomy."

He glanced over his shoulder at Christine with a brow raised in indignation before looking back down to the tiny bundle tucked protectively against his chest. "Pay no mind to your mamma, Angelique. _We_ know that you are a brilliant child, don't we?"

Christine slid onto the bench beside her husband and newborn daughter with a delighted smile upon her face. "Oh, there can be no doubt of that," she agreed as she diligently tucked an extra blanket around their precious baby girl. She brushed the tip of her finger over a velvety soft cheek, her heart near to bursting as she gazed tenderly at her daughter. Serious blue-green eyes looked back at her, lighting with recognition as a happy little coo spilled from tiny lips.

The long hours of labor just weeks before had been forgotten the moment that Christine had felt the wondrous weight of the babe in her arms. She had fallen immediately, completely and unconditionally in love with her daughter, as had Erik. No one could fail to see his joy at having been granted such a miraculous gift.

"No doubt at all," he boasted proudly, "she clearly understands every word that we are saying." Christine grew misty eyed at the expression of utter adoration upon her husband's unmasked face as he cradled Angelique in his arms.

"I suspect that your papa will spoil you endlessly, ma petite," she whispered to her daughter.

"No more than I spoil her mother."

Christine smiled brilliantly and placed a kiss to Erik's cheek before settling comfortable against him and resting her head upon his shoulder. "As I said," she murmured, "endlessly."

The little family sat wrapped up in a warm blanket of love as the first streaks of fire raced upward to the heavens, exploding into sparkling blooms of light. One year had passed since the Fates had conspired to set two wayward angels upon their happy path, and no doubt they would still stumble from time to time, but they would forevermore walk this journey together.

Two lives made one.

* * *

**A/N: ** More fluff for you all.

I have truly appreciated everyone's feedback during this story. Only the epilogue remains.


	25. In Winter

**In Winter**

_1919  
__Paris, France  
__Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise_

October in Paris had always been a dull, dreary month filled with charcoal skies and the distant bite of winter, and this day was no different. Leaves rustled under the wheels of the chair as the Vicomte de Chagny was steered through the forest of stone monuments and sculpted angels that stood as final testaments to the mortal realm.

The hazy vapors of his breath in the bitter air danced painful spirals in front of his weary eyes, and the sting of tears closed his throat. He should never have had to make this journey…it should be _she _who still remained amongst the living and not buried amidst the silent sepulchers

_Far too long since last we spoke_, he thought bitterly, _and never often enough._

He clutched at the music box in his hands, the beautiful carvings in the wood contrasting harshly with the eerie monkey atop. Oh, what those little glass eyes must have seen!

His chauffer stopped a few feet from the cold granite that loomed mockingly from the dust. The man bent to help his master with the strange offering, but Raoul waived him away. This one final act he must see to himself. On unsteady legs, he abandoned the imprisonment of his chair and took slow measured steps toward the memorial before him.

_Christine  
Comtesse de Chagny  
Beloved Wife and Mother_

The gravestone was a bitter reminder of all that Raoul had once dreamed for himself, yet he knew that the inscription had been carved as a testament to all that Christine had been in her life. Beloved wife of his brother, and beloved mother of their children.

She had borne Erik three healthy heirs, two daughters and a son, all of whom had been as beautiful as their mother, and as brilliant as their father, though Raoul still hesitated to issue the man such a compliment. Angelique, the eldest of their children, had enjoyed a long, successful career upon the stage of _La Scala_, and had only recently retired to a quiet life in Venice. Raoul rarely ever saw her, or her younger sister, Régine. Erik had always kept as watchful an eye upon his daughters as he had upon Christine. Their son, however, had settled in Paris some years ago, taking a French bride and assuming his position as the next Comte de Chagny. Gustave was a fine young man, and Raoul was grateful that he had been granted the opportunity to groom his nephew for his position as head of the De Chagny family. Such a feat had been accomplished entirely due to the influence that Christine had maintained over them all.

Erik and Raoul had never moved very far past their violent beginning, and it was only Christine's continued presence in their lives that had kept them civil. The Baroness d'Amboise, God rest her soul, had been true to her word, and with a single well placed announcement in the _Époque, _she had ensured that Erik was named as the rightful Comte de Chagny despite his reluctance to accept the title. He had been happy to return to Venice with Christine and move on with the life that they had made there together.

Christine had even returned to the stage for a time after the birth of their first child, and had not retired completely until she had been expecting their third. Erik's career as an architect had flourished in Italy, as had his music, and the De Chagny name and title had been merely a minor detail that he had only acknowledged in deference to his aunt.

Only in their later years, after the children had grown and established lives of their own, did Erik and Christine permanently return to Paris as the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny. By then, barely anyone had recalled the story of Christine Daaé or the Phantom of the Opera. Certainly, no one had associated the distinguished Comte and his regal wife with the dubious pair.

Raoul had remained the Vicomte de Chagny, as he would until his death, when the title would pass to Gustave. Unless, of course, Erik were to precede his brother to the grave. The winner of that little contest would be difficult to predict. Raoul's health had been failing for near to a decade now, but he had not seen Erik since Christine's death, and he knew from his nephew's somber reports that the Comte de Chagny was not at all well.

Erik's soul had died along with his beloved wife, and only his stubborn body had kept him tied to this realm. Angelique had taken her adored father back to Venice after the funeral, to the place where her parents had shared such wonderful memories, but by all accounts, Erik had nearly become the ghost that he had once pretended to be. He had not even managed to return to Paris on this most inauspicious of dates; the two year anniversary of Christine's death, which by a strange twist of Fate, one that Raoul had come to expect in all matters concerning his brother, coincided with the auction at the recently sold, unfortunately neglected, Opera Populáire.

Carefully placing the music box upon the edge of the tomb, Raoul straightened to gaze again at Christine's image set into the stone, forever capturing her beauty upon its cold, unfeeling surface. She had spoken of the music box to him long ago…when he had still clung to his delusional dreams of a future with her. Brokenly, she had described the way in which Erik's voice had been in sad harmony with the familiar tune as she had prepared to walk away from him. The man's first whispered words of love to her had been said in the presence of that little monkey, and Christine had later confessed to Raoul that the bittersweet moment would be forever burned into her memory. It seemed fitting, somehow, that he could offer the box to her now…a final acknowledgment of where her heart had always belonged.

She had led a happy life with Erik, and for that Raoul was grateful. He had not been nearly so lucky. Once, long ago, Christine had broken his heart with her inability to let go of her angel, insisting that Raoul deserved a woman who would love him above all else. She had never truly understood that _he_ could never love any other woman above her. He had tried, of course, and had even briefly tasted happiness in the arms of another, but the affair had been ill fated from the beginning. His chosen mistress had never cared to stand in the shadow of his unrequited love for Christine, and had eventually left him for an adoring Baron nearly twice her age.

Raoul had eventually accepted his lot and married a proper young woman from amidst his peers, one who had looked lovely upon his arm and acted as a wife of the aristocracy ought, but the marriage had been cold and passionless…and to his everlasting heartbreak, childless, as well. His poor wife had not deserved her fate. She had done her best in a marriage to a man whose heart had forever belonged to one woman, and whose passion had been inspired by another.

His life had been filled with countless regrets and disappointments, and it had been no more than he had deserved for foolishly squandering every chance that he had been given. None of his wealth nor privilege had truly mattered in the end. His gaze journeyed again over the familiar features of Christine's portrait.

_Goodbye, my dearest lost love. It shan't be long before I will see you once again._

He sighed raggedly, and just before he turned to leave, his eyes caught on a flicker of light and were drawn to an object that he had previously failed to take note of. There, upon the corner of the stone, rested one perfect, red rose…the stem tied with a familiar black ribbon from which a ring winked up at him. He could not fail to recognize the diamond. He, himself, had gifted it to Christine a lifetime ago. A parade of memories marched past his weary eyes, as vivid and painful as if they were happening in that moment.

xx

_Raoul held the diamond reverently, beaming at Christine as he took her left hand with the intention of slipping the ring upon her third finger, only to have her close her hand into a fist. "No, Raoul," she pleaded, "I mustn't wear it yet. Someone will see."_

"_Is that not the point? I want the world to know that we are betrothed."_

"_We must keep it secret for a time," she insisted. _

"_But why?"_

"_Promise me, Raoul," she begged with wide innocent eyes._

"_Very well," he sighed, "I promise."_

Weeks later…

_The Red Death stalked toward Christine at the Bal Masque. A moment of suspended silence wrought with tension stretched between them before the Phantom viciously tore the ring from her throat. "Your chains are still mine. You belong to me!"_

The night of the fire…

_Raoul struggled for breath as he helplessly watched Christine sacrifice herself to save his life. Wading toward the unmasked Phantom, she softly sang to him, "God give me courage to show you, you are not alone." The ring was slipped decidedly onto her finger in the heartbeat before she kissed him…the promise made._

The De Chagny Chateau…

"_I shall have to buy you another engagement ring, my sweet little Lotte, to replace the one that was stolen."_

"_No, Raoul," she insisted adamantly. "I need no other ring but the one that will make me a wife."_

Years later…

"_Whatever did become of the ring that I gave to you, Christine? I thought I saw it upon your finger on that Godforsaken night."_

_She sighed, "I returned it to Erik."_

"_But why? It was never his!"_

"_You would not understand…"_

"_But I want to."_

"_It was a promise, Raoul. One that I have since fulfilled."_

xx

Raoul could almost hear Christine's sweet soprano echoing on the breeze.

_A promise, Raoul…_

All of their lives had been shaped by that promise, and he glanced around the cemetery in search of his elusive brother. He thought that he saw a shadow flicker behind a distant mausoleum, and Raoul gave an imperceptible nod of respect as he returned his eyes to the rose. Erik's final goodbye to his beloved wife.

The two men had only ever admitted to sharing one thing in common…their love for Christine. She had touched them both indelibly, and now they shared their grief in the only way available to them. His eyes lingered on her marker as the chilled currents of air swirled around him, bringing with them the scent of roses.

The winter would come early this year.

_Soon, Christine…we will both join you soon._

_**Fin**_

* * *

**Author's Note: **So concludes my humble attempt at explaining the mystery never fully explained. The ending is a bit bittersweet, but I wanted to tie it back to the movie. 

A final thank you to everyone who has read this, and to all of my wonderful reviewers. I have truly enjoyed all of your correspondence. I hope to soon repeat the experience.


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